


365 Prompts for Mary Poppins

by t_hanson



Category: Mary Poppins - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Comfort, Crossover, Established Relationship, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, F/M, Family, Fluff, Immortality, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jealousy, Magic, Marriage, Parenthood, Rivalry, Romance, Unrequited Love, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2019-11-05 23:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 78
Words: 25,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17928674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_hanson/pseuds/t_hanson
Summary: I've decided to complete a 365 prompt list and I've done a few for Mary Poppins. They will hopefully cover a range of topics and characters; please let me know what you think! I'll continue if you guys like them.Also, I've already started this on ff.net but I thought I'd share here as I'm old and I don't know what's relevant anymore.





	1. New Beginnings

They don’t deserve you.

Perhaps her mother was correct in that assumption. It was not her place to say. 

A respectable woman must have a respectable job and Mary would not disappoint. She would start her life the way she wanted. 

Packing her bags, she filled it with every possible item she may need. Her mother thought it unnecessary; it was being cautious. Mary would not be caught unawares. Her nature would not allow it. 

So, she left her home, bag in hand, silver buttons fastened, and her umbrella tucked under her arm. The breeze tickled across the wisp of curls that were too short for her bun, swirling round her body and rustling the hem of her skirt. 

One. Two. Three.

She inhaled sharply and deeply, exhaling the same air slowly through her lips. 

Her life, her career, would happen the way she wanted. Mary Poppins would have no less. 

With such a thought, she unfurled her umbrella, feeling her body lift until even the tips of her toes had left the pavement. 

She soared. In every aspect.


	2. Window

The sudden appearance had startled her, but she would not allow him the satisfaction. Thrusting open the window pane, she looked down at him, arms crossed. 

“Excuse me, do you often peek through ladies’ windows?”

Bert glanced up at her, steadying his footing on the ladders, a bucket in one hand. 

“Why, ‘ello there, Mary!”

“We’re a window cleaner today, are we?”

He doffed his cap. “That I am. Mind keepin’ me company? If ya don’t min’ o’ course.”

Mary had a list of chores that needed completing. Still, if she was unable to finish them then she wasn’t Mary Poppins. An hour or so wouldn’t hurt. 

Seating herself beside the window, she watched him work. He scrubbed the glass and polished it, never pausing to take a breath as he chatted to her. 

Bert closed the window once he had finished. Through the newly cleaned pane, he flashed her a wide smile, winking as he dropped out of sight. Raising her eyebrows, Mary peered down. He had already hauled the ladder over his shoulder. 

With a doff of his cap, he passed through the gate at the side of the house with a merry whistle. She watched him until he was no longer in sight. 

Stepping away from the window, a smile tugged on her lips. Precisely the same moment that a stream of light filtered through the glass. Perhaps she should request for a regular window clean.


	3. Peace of Mind

The boiler had been fixed, the stained rug replaced, and Robertson Ay had finally stopped using the boot polish on Mr Banks’s bowler hat. 

All seemed well. 

Upstairs, Jane and Michael were quiet. Jane was reading and Michael was staring through his telescope, entranced by the darkening sky. What lay beyond. 

Even the twins were babbling quietly, happily. John had his foot in his mouth but Barbara was more sophisticated, she was chewing on the rubber of her bottle. Still, she was amused by his skill. 

Perhaps the cause was that it was a Nice Day or perhaps it had been the lovely dinner Mrs Brill had cooked. 

Or perhaps it was the creak of the rocking chair by the fire. The boots that needn’t push it back and forth, it did it on its own. Expert fingers weaved wool into a scarf, accompanied by a low hum. Comforting. Like toast and warm milk before bed, or a bath. 

Mary Poppins had returned once more to Number Seventeen, Cherry Tree Lane. And with her had come silence, peace… Comfort. 

Downstairs, Mrs Banks chatted away, barely aware that Mr Banks was trying to read the newspaper. 

“As I was saying, dear, it was so nice of her to return.”

“Well, she ought to have,” snorted Mr Banks, “Considering she gave no notice last time.”

“How quiet it is now.” Mrs Banks settled into the cushion of her chair, a content smile spreading across her face as she inhaled slowly. “I am inclined to say it’s peaceful.”


	4. Unrequited Love

He did not know how long he had waited. 

Count each second, each day, year… Total them together and he was sure the calculation was answer enough. 

Friends had lived, loved, laughed, and passed. Not him. And not his Mary.

Times changed and he no longer waited on the rooftops for her. People would notice. There was always the park. Their park. 

In his dreams, there were kisses, soft touches. In reality, there was only a warm smile and a greeting. Those smiles were warm enough to make him forget the chill. Especially when gloved hands tugged his scarf tighter around him with a light chastisement. 

It had been so long and he still did not have the heart to tell her. He was sure she knew. Someone that astute couldn’t miss the way he looked at her, the way he spoke of her. A man obsessed. And a man in love. 

But if he could not tell her than he would wait. And he did.


	5. Speed

If anyone were to look to the sky, they may have been astounded. Yet, it was night-time and that decision had been consciously made. No lady should be seen in such a state. 

The breeze whipped the hair around her face and her cheeks flushed crimson, more so than usual. Mary had only one thought on her mind. 

She had made a promise and she did not take those lightly. 

Big Ben was close to chiming. She could see it from the clouds. 

Furrowing her brow, she sped ahead, her eyes almost closing from the rush of wind. Her hand was gripped firmly on the handle of her umbrella. It had complained more than once but she ignored it. 

Eventually, she slowed down. Almost to a halt. She remained there, hovering in the air, surveying the area below. A sole figure was visible, alone in the park. 

They were sitting on the edge of a statue. Neleus, to be precise. No doubt they had had a wonderful conversation. Reminiscing of brighter times. 

Times that were still to be had. 

Mary lowered herself down, a little faster than usual. 

He must have felt it, his head shooting up almost instantly at the touch of a breeze against his neck. With his usual grin, he sprang to his feet, his worn shoes hitting against the stone. 

“Mary!”

She practically fell into his arms, clinging tightly around his neck. Her cheeks flushed even more, if that were possible. But anything was possible when they were together. 

They pressed their lips together. The statues and stars averted their gaze; it would have been impolite otherwise. 

“Oh, Bert!” She pulled her lips from his. “I came as fast as I can.”

“That’s okay, Mary Mine. You’re ‘ere now. That’s wha’ matters.”

He could hardly speak before she kissed him again. Quite thoroughly.


	6. Mayhem

“Spit spot!”

How she despised the dragging of feet across the floor, the low groans. The nursery was a mess, and she would not allow them any more enjoyment until they finished their chores. 

All those buts. But, but, but. She’d had enough of them. 

No more games and no more clicking of fingers. That was being too generous. If she had to work harder than so did they. 

Michael did not take it well. There had been tears, then there had been the throwing of toys, and lastly, screaming. How she hated the screaming. Nobody spoke like that to Mary Poppins. Not if she could help it. 

She had given him a stern talking to. He started muttering. 

She had threatened no dinner. He had pulled Jane’s hair and eaten a stash of his father’s mints. 

She had sent him to bed. He had played with his toys that he never put away. 

“Enough is enough,” she said. “You are a Very Naughty Boy.”

He had gone to bed, satisfied with the ruckus he had caused. She had gone to bed, tempted to mutter a few words herself. 

In the middle of the night, she was awoken by shouting and crying. Michael had awoken from a bad dream, he said. He wanted a hug and he wanted some hot milk. With an apology, he tidied the nursey, cleaning away the bad behaviour of yesterday. Something about how the toys had throwing him across the room, like he had them. 

Mary had given him the milk, gave a curt good-night, and settled him back into bed. 

“You are spoilt,” she told him. 

“Thank you for staying with me, Mary Poppins.”

She gave a low hum and returned to her own bed between the twins. Perhaps next time, he wouldn’t cause such a fuss.


	7. Gild the Lily

No matter how many times she wiped his face, there was always a spot of soot there. She thought perhaps it was doing it on purpose. To spite her. Dark mutterings had been thrown its way, but he seemed nonplussed. 

“What are you complain’ abou’ now, Mary?” Bert gave a lopsided grin. 

“Can’t you keep your face clean for one second?”

He barked out a laugh. “Wha’ can I say? It likes me.”

“Hm.”

Mary turned, attempting to preoccupy herself with a chore less frustrating. She had barely started before she felt arms wrapping around her waist. His breath tickled her ear.

“Don’ be like this.”

She raised an eyebrow, peevish. “Like what, Mr Alfred? Would you care to be more specific?”

“Surely I’m handsome either way.”

He received an exasperated sigh in response. Only because he was correct in that assumption. Those sky-blue eyes and bright grin. She had never looked once upon that face and not found it handsome. If only his attention wasn’t diverted to her when he arrived home after work. Perhaps then, he would wash his face. 

“Well…” he said slowly, when there was no reply. “I suppose we’ll have t’ see how ya feel abou’ it now.”

With a swipe of his face against hers, a streak of black marked her fair skin. She almost cried out in alarm, struggling out of his embrace. Plenty of words were used to describe how she felt and he laughed his way through all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably rewrite this at some point. When, who knows.


	8. First Romance

Life had a structure, a way of living that could was ascribed to with concrete fact. Even in the face of the impossible, that was how Mary lived. There were rules to a game. Sentiment was irrelevant. Besides, she found the notion absurd. 

Yet, practical perfection wasn’t quite so. 

She learnt that lesson the hard way, strolling through London on a sunny day. Pausing, she was momentarily distracted by etchings of chalk across the pavement. Technicolour for all to see. 

Dropping a coin into the artist’s cap, Mary felt it would be impolite to leave without complimenting the man first. He had his back to her, not once having paused in his work. 

She stepped beside him. “Excuse me.”

Her profile shadowed across the slab of concrete. 

“Hold on!” he exclaimed, shifting sideways on his knees. 

He began to etch her portrait, an expert precision to his lines. With a flourish, he pocketed the chalk and sprung to his feet. His thin coat was covered in chalk stains and soot.

“Wha’ an extraordinary profile you have, Mi…”

The man came to an abrupt halt, noticing her for the first time. His cheeks began to redden. Mary felt herself reciprocating the gesture. Not that it was hardly noticeable. Staring into a sky-blue reflection, some sentiment struck her that she hadn’t felt before. 

That uncertainty disappeared in the blink of an eye, her hand raising to pat her hair. 

“Yes, I like to think so,” she simpered. “Your work is wonderful, I must say. Is this what you do for a living?”

His face hadn’t lessened in its redness, his hands wringing together. “Oh, yes… Ma’am. It is.” Then his lips jerked upward in a grin, a sparkle returning to his eye. “But I’m a jack-of-all-trades by definition. Bert’s my name.”

“Well, you certainly have a talent, Bert.” She liked the way his name sounded. “I’m Mary. Mary Poppins.”

Their conversation was shortly interrupted by the Park Keeper, who had taken a moment to say hello. Mary stepped back, knowing she had more pressing matters to attend to. 

“Don’t be afraid t’ come back now, you hear?” Bert called after her.

Mary was never afraid of anything. But she did take a second to recollect herself, some strange feeling pounding against her chest. It was unnecessary. Sentimental. 

As much as she knew there was no reason for it, Mary returned the next day. Bert had painted red carnations; she took them home and placed them in a vase on her windowsill. 

Years later, Bert was surprised to find they still had not wilted. Nor had the other painted flowers she had kept over the years, collected into one exquisite bouquet. Mary could forgive sentiment. If it allowed her to keep a piece of each stolen moment with him.


	9. Vessel

The world teetered a fine line between reality and, as the children called it, magic. 

Magic wasn’t the right word. Yet, if you were to ask Mary Poppins, she would never specify what the correct term was. Minding your own business was minding your manners. And that was that. 

Numerous children experienced her magic, never once understanding the mystery behind it. What made her the way she was. That sentiment remained for her friends too. Mrs Corry, Mr Turvey and his wife Topsy, Fred Twigley, and their favourite, Uncle Albert. All mystical in their own way. 

How she contained that ability, nobody knew. Nobody even thought to ask.

The question was quite simple. She did. That was an answer in itself. 

Mary, herself, never felt the need to explain; for you see, she never explained anything. She lived in their world and her own. What was reality and what was magic was merely a matter of perspective.


	10. Disillusionment

How novel it had seemed. Not immortality, but an extended life. A chance to live longer than a human should. A young Mary had been entranced by the idea. 

Her family had told her to be wary. With a sad smile, her mother had run a strand of Mary’s hair between her fingers. 

“Things are not always as they appear, Mary. Remember that.”

Yet, as time passed, she thought she knew better. Well-educated and soon to be an educator herself, how could she not? But she had been foolish, frivolous. 

Mary looked to the night-sky with a raised brow. 

“I suppose you are pleased,” she said to nobody in particular.

Still, her mother heard her. 

She returned inside, into the warmth. Small but homely, the ambient lights showed the way through the house. To the bedroom. Mary hesitated outside, her hand curling around the doorknob. A slow inhale and exhale. 

Opening the door, her gaze immediately traced the life within. She could feel the struggling pulse of the heart, almost as if it were her own. 

Sitting beside the bed, she reached out and took the withered hand resting atop the sheets. Still so large and calloused. 

“Mary?”

The voice was worn with age, but sentiment could still be heard there. 

“Yes, dear?”

“How were the stars?”

She released a small laugh, her lips flickering upward for a moment. “Beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you, my love.”

Mary clutched his hand tighter than she intended, forcibly gulping back whatever emotion was rising. 

“I think you’ll find, Bert, that they don’t shine as bright as you.”

With a low chuckle, he peered across at her, his eyes glistening brightly. He didn’t move; he barely could. They were an age apart but that needn’t matter. Mary wouldn’t leave him. She had told him so and he had pressed his hand against her chest, feeling the life circulating within. He would never leave her too.


	11. Dancing

A load of raucous. 

That’s what Admiral Boom had called it, staring into his telescope. Two streets away, the shadowed silhouettes of the chimney sweeps were seen. Jumping, kicking, hollering. It was unseemly. And so, Admiral Boom was wheeled back into his house by Mr Binnacle. 

His parting words were better left to the imagination. 

Not that the sweeps had noticed. They had little care for what happened around them; this was their time to brush the remnants of soot from their faces. To forget, for tonight, their worries and cares. 

They had cleared into a circle, one young man dancing on his own. He had been asked to step in time and step in time he would. 

Finishing with a flourish, he spun until he could hardly tell which way was up or down. His heel dug into the floor and he came to a stop. Arms flung out to a collection of cheers and whistles.

He always knew how to please a crowd. 

Hopping onto a nearby chimney stack, he clung onto the brick, shouting a greeting to another sweep across the roof. The young man was halfway through a laugh when he felt as if someone were watching him. 

One look told him that there was nobody else there. Apart from the sweeps. Repressing whatever doubt he had, he hopped back into the circle. Plenty of things were possible but an invisible onlooker was not one of them.

Ø

Brushes in hand, he skipped along the tiles, barely paying attention to where he was stepping. He knew the way well enough.

“See you, Bert.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he doffed his cap. “See ya, Tom.”

His gaze ran over the empty rooftops, his friends having left for home. That feeling remained. As if he were staring into the eyes of someone who wasn’t there.

He decided to think nothing of it. Perhaps the day had been harder on him than he thought. A slight gust of wind caused Bert to shiver, wrapping his thin jacket tighter around him.

He didn’t notice the woman behind, perched atop a chimney stack. Holding out her arm, umbrella in hand, the wind lifted her into the air. Not once did she look away from his retreating figure.


	12. Different Ways of Thinking

A tiny patter along the windowsill, one that Annabel almost mistook for a leaf stuck against the glass pane. It was only the Starling. Her eyes widened, a chubby finger already pointing to the fireplace. 

“There’s a biscuit up there,” she told him. “By the Royal Doulton bowl.”

The Starling hopped along the sill before gliding across, taking the Arrowroot biscuit in his beak. He took it back to the window. 

“Thank you, you dear thing,” he said. “You always remember. These little treats make my visits all the merrier.”

With a confused look in her brown eyes, she called across to him. The light made her golden curls look like a halo.

“Starling?”

“Yes?”

“What makes her so different?” Annabel glanced across the room as if she would be heard.

The Starling’s eyes widened. “Oh, her. She’s always been that way, child. All babies grow up and forget but not her. She never forgot how to hear the wind and talk to the birds, nor did she forget how the stars danced for her in their circus.” 

“I won’t forget,” Annabel told him, determined. 

With a knowing chuckle, the Starling flapped his wings as if he were shrugging. “It can’t be helped. Nobody remembers.”

With a swift goodbye and the promise of a gift for the next visit, the Starling left. Annabel watched him go, tears welling in her eyes. She glanced across the nursery with a frown. The Starling was wrong, she told herself. She wouldn’t forget. 

Mary Poppins draped Jane’s stockings at the fireplace, back turned to the cot. She had returned to find the Starling flying away and she had called after him- “Be gone, you horrid Sparrer!”. From the tears shining in Annabel’s eyes, she knew what they had spoken about. 

That was the way things were. Mary would not explain herself; nobody needed to know why she thought differently to everyone else. Why she was able to remember all the mysteries of the universe that others so willingly forgot. Annabel would be no exception to that rule.


	13. Consequence

Miss Euphemia Andrew hardly knew what to think, tossing and turning as she tumbled down the pavement. Her body bumping into the metal bars of the birdcage. All she heard was an ungodly shriek, thinking it was that horrid young girl who had dazed her, before realising it had been her making that noise all along. 

Caruso had not flung her of his own free will, she knew that much. He had been such a good little bird. Despite his lack of singing.

No, it was that wicked woman. 

Her withered hands pushed open the birdcage, her surroundings shrinking back to normal size as she stepped out.

“How dare you!” she howled, spinning round to point her long, bony finger at the new nanny. 

But when she came face to face with her, even a few houses away, the look on the sorceress’s face silenced the words at the back of her throat. A terrible feeling settled in her chest, some nervous flutter. She had never seen such a look in all her life. 

Miss Euphemia Andrew climbed back into that taxi cab before another word was said. Was she apologetic? Unlikely. But somewhere, deep in those crystal blue eyes, she had seen the consequences of her actions. And she would rather not face them.


	14. Gratitude

How prim, how proper. 

With the click of her boots, umbrella under arm, Mary Poppins would now allow anything other than perfection. Practically so. People saw her the way she wanted them to and she expected nothing less. For that, she was grateful. 

Bert, on the other hand, was thankful for second Tuesdays, for the day the wind went East. That slightest whisper in the breeze that told him his wait had been worth it. 

But he wished he could share what he was most thankful for. 

That click of the front door, the thrill of knowing he was no longer alone, the way they clung to each other as if it were the first reunion. And the last. 

She would tell him she loved him and he wasted no time telling her he loved her too. 

Yet, what he was most thankful for was the day after her return. When he snuck back into his room, breakfast tray in hand, and caught a glimpse of the waves of brown across his pillow. The way she snored lightly and how her arm reached out to his side of the bed, even when he wasn’t there. 

Bert couldn’t have asked for a better wife. Each second with her was precious, as precious as she was, and he could never ask her to be anything but prim and proper. As long as he was the only man to see her otherwise.


	15. Explosion

It had been a surprise, although not an entirely unexpected one. 

There had been the rain, dark clouds forming ahead. But with the water came droplets of metal. Unleashing havoc in their path. 

Mary had seen them multiple times before, had felt the disturbance in the wind. She had quickened her pace to get to the underground shelter. There was one nearby. 

Two streets down, there was a resounding blast. She could see it, even from where she stood. The smoke that curled into the air, twisting its way across the rooftops, and the clatter of debris across the street. 

London was crumbling. 

Smoke filled the air. Not from factories but from fire. Homes and communities torn apart, people lost or relocated. 

Its heart still beat; she could feel it, but it was faint and weak. There was nothing she could do. 

With a sturdy rhythm, her heels clacked against the cobbles until she came to the end of the street where there had been an explosion. The sight was ghastly. But she had seen it all before. 

To the side, a little girl was crying, clutching her teddy bear close to her chest. Mary approached her, noting the lack of adults around her. First response were preoccupied with the fire, trying to dwindle it to nothing. She briefly thought of Bert. A prayer was sent for him before she halted beside the girl, her gaze expressing her condolences. 

“Come, Alice. This is no place for grieving.”

She reached out her hand, an unusual gesture once upon a time. But this was no time for propriety. 

Alice accepted her hand, so small in her gloved ones. She ceased to weep, even as her bottom lip continued to tremble, and she followed Mary unquestioningly down the street.

What a sight they made together. Side-by-side.


	16. Money

A little hop and a skip, that shabby hat in hand. 

“There’s a nice little café around the corner.” Bert stared hopefully at her. “I can take you there, if you like.”

Mary did not dampen the smile that tugged at her lips, gripping her umbrella tighter than she realised. “That sounds wonderful, Bert.” 

His grin grew wider, if possible. Delving into his pockets, he brought out a handful of coins. His earnings from selling balloons that day. Bert counted them slowly, his smile disappearing as he began to realise there wasn’t a suitable amount. He needn’t say anything for Mary to know. She did not pity him; he didn’t need it. Instead, she offered her own smile. 

“That’s quite alright,” she assured him. “I think I can sort an outing for the both of us.”

“No, no,” he protested, shoving the coins back into his pocket. “That won’t do. I can’t have you paying.”

She raised her nose into the air, almost offended at the insinuation. 

“Who said anything about paying?” she sniffed. “Don’t be so presumptuous.” Before he could apologise, she continued. “I heard the National Gallery has some wonderful paintings there, if you wish to take a look.”

His eyes widened, a knowing laugh bursting forth. 

“Why, Mary! You might be right.”

“Of course I am.”

Bert held out his arm, placing his hat back onto his unruly hair as her hand came to rest in the crook of his elbow. They started down the pavement together, arm-in-arm. One didn’t need money when they were in the presence of Mary Poppins. 

He was sure whichever painting they’d choose, it would be perfect. Every second Tuesday was.


	17. Travelling Alone

Waves, transparent and weightless. Coiling and curling beneath her. 

For an object that was barely tangible, Mary sat upon the cloud with little issue. Ankles crossed, even while alone. One could not forget manners; being in the skies was no exception. 

It could be lonesome. Even with a babbling parrot. 

She usually enjoyed the silent journey, the quiet before the storm. There was rarely any time for peace once she found herself with a new family. 

Her thumb tapped against the back of her other hand, one resting atop the other. Mary had more to contemplate than where she was going. Where she had been interested her more. 

The wind had brought her back to London, to her home. To her friends and family. 

Those weeks had been passed in ardent happiness. It was always a wonderful day when she saw the cheery smile of a certain friend. Not that she couldn’t feel that joy without him; Mary was as culpable of becoming home-sick as anyone. 

With a click of her fingers, the latch of her bag opened and a folded piece of paper found its way into her hands. Crinkled at the edges and worn across the folded lines. It had been handled many times; it was loved.

Eyes scanned the words, as if she hadn’t learnt them by heart. The scrawl of her name in his handwriting, words that could not always be said aloud. She adored it. She adored him. 

_Don’t wait to come back to me, Mary Mine._

Although she was alone, she answered his plea anyway. 

“I won’t.”

The cloud drifted slowly. Time passed differently here. She glanced upward, her eyes glistening as if she saw something there. Other than the endless sky. 

London was near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shout-out that I'm open for commissions still, so if you want to see more examples of my work since I usually do fully written chapters/stories, let me know! I'm open for Mary Poppins related work and some other fandoms; drop a message if you want to ask or want to know the rates. You can also contact me at hello--mrs on tumblr (two -)


	18. Irony

To become a nanny, in traditional terms, was for unwed women in need of an income.

A very old-fashioned idea to Mary’s mind. She had taken the role as an agreement, hearing the sound of obligation in the way the wind rattled at her windowpane. 

Her mother had been pleased to hear she had found a calling. She had insisted on many vocations, to which Mary was met with silence. Clearly, they were not for her. 

With this newfound position came a responsibility that she tried to be ready for. It hardly mattered to her that she would not be married nor have children. The youth are blinded by eternity. No, the universe had a place for her and she did not refuse it. 

But it seemed that the universe had a sense of humour. 

Mary Poppins was not one to be conventional nor was she one to live in a world that believed in impossibilities. The role of nanny, she wore with pride. Yet, the golden band across her finger, she was the most honoured to wear. 

Her wards would ask if she had children of her own, mothers would sigh about how she could bear to be parted from her husband, and fathers wouldn’t even notice she had a ring in the first place. 

By her bedside, she kept a photograph of him, another beside it with three smiling faces. For she always thought of their daughter. She carried them with her, smaller photos kept in the locket under her blouse. Holding them dear till she set foot at their front gate, the door swinging open as a little figure almost knocked her to the ground. 

“How do you balance both lives, Mary Poppins?” people would ask.

And she would scoff for it was a silly question. 

“Anything can happen if you let it.”


	19. Lust

A modest dress, not expensive but sentimental, barely a wrinkle in sight. At least, there hadn’t been when on the body of a certain Mary Poppins.

Now, it was discarded on the floor. A little lovingly. Each button had taken an age, fingers brushing against the skin that was left exposed. Mary Poppins would not have been pleased to see such a mess. What little regard there was for cleanliness. 

But Mary Alfred, on the other hand, had different priorities. 

She saw Bert like she’d never seen him before. Knew him like she never had. The scar on his side from an accident chimney-sweeping, the hair across his chest and down his abdomen. Even the way he said her name; it was different. 

Each touch so loving, she could hardly care what happened to her dress. Or his suit that he had painstakingly saved for. 

He had apologised for the setting. The dingy little flat that he owned being their place of choice for the wedding night. She wasn’t sure what he needed to apologise for; it was perfect. 

She had never felt more at home. 

Exchanging kisses that made her blush, sounding noises that she thought she was incapable of making. Uncouth. Yet, she found she rather liked it. There could be no impropriety with your husband. Lucky, she supposed, because this was very improper. 

Hair splayed across his chest, fingers entwined with his, she was distracted by the way his thumb lightly traced her skin. Hand on waist, he pulled her a little closer. Potentially in the hope they would merge into one. 

They were both thinking about how their bare skin felt against the other. Thrilling and comforting, all in one. 

“I couldn’t have asked for a better day, Mary…” He trailed off as she looked up at him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. He felt his heart flutter. “Mrs Alfred. It was perfect.” 

He raised his hand from her waist to brush the raven hair splayed across his chest and the pillow beside them. Dark as the night, but her eyes were as clear as day. A vulnerability there that only he could see. 

“You are perfect.”

The rosy blush across her cheeks went a little pinker. 

“If anyone is perfect here, Mr Alfred,” she chastised, “it is you.”

He chuckled. A smile tugged at her lips as she felt her head move in rhythm with the laughter that shook across his chest. 

“If you say so.”

A seriousness dawned on her face, her fingers tugging on his in earnest. “I love you, Bert.”

A similar shade of pink began to spread along his cheeks and across his nose.

“And I love you, Mary.”

She questioned if it were natural to initiate love-making after they had only just finished. To hell with propriety, she decided. She was a married woman now. Mary Alfred will do as she pleases.


	20. Identity Crisis

_Your services are no longer required._

The counsel had been clear. It hadn’t been a complete surprise; Mary knew her time was coming to an end. Yet, she hadn’t been prepared. 

She had known that her vocation as a nanny would only last so long. They could not expect her to do it forever, though she wished she could. That was not for her to decide; that was for the counsel. And they had made their decision. 

Handing over her bag and umbrella, she had received them back, only to find her bag had a bottom and her umbrella was no longer sarcastic. Which may have been due to the fact he couldn’t talk at all. 

Mary had spent her newly found time helping Uncle Albert, refusing to mope in her bedroom, for Mary Poppins did not mope. However, even with her magic abilities left, not being around children was beginning to take its toll. She missed it more than she could say. 

What she’d do for one more day where babies would scream in her ear, nurseries would remain untidy, and mothers would tell her that she may as well get the groceries while she was out. 

Who was she if she wasn’t Mary Poppins? But as a dear friend told her one night, sitting atop a chimney stack, she was Mary Poppins. She simply wasn’t a nanny. And in that sense, she was no longer indebted to her duty. 

“I mean, you’ll always be Mary Poppins, o’ course,” Bert said, feet swinging back and forth as they dangled over the edge. “But I guess that gives us more time t’ plan the wedding, you no’ being a nanny and all.” 

Staring out into the star-strewn sky, she supposed he was right. In her distraction, she had forgotten the very teachings that she often lectured to the children. Endless possibilities were there for the taking and she was finally given the chance to have a life outside of her work. 

If she wasn’t herself, the world was knocked askew, but she wasn’t worried. Mary Poppins always knew how to make the world right again.


	21. Being Replaced

After so many years, one might think that it was easy to forget. To easily misplace the names of so many families somewhere in the back of her minds. Yet, Mary Poppins was, above all else, efficient. 

That is- she would never be so unprofessional as to forget the names of her employers. 

Every time she left, her umbrella reminded her that sentiment could be permitted, that she was allowed to be honest with herself. Perhaps she was. That needn’t mean she had to be honest with the umbrella.

It was inconceivable to her that she could ever forget them, professionally or not. 

Each moment she spent with the children, the parents. Each aunt, uncle, grandparent, guardian… A story that she tucked away in her memory for another time. Not one was forgotten. 

Every silly tantrum, every terrible joke, every smile, and every goodbye. The children she had seen birthed and those that hadn’t been so lucky. 

Mary would not allow such an injustice as to forget them. 

Bert had suggested that she write them down, each story, so that she may share these individual experiences. She had told him that it was not her story to tell. 

With every painting she left with them, painstakingly completed by Bert, and every trinket she allowed them to keep, she was sure they would forget. Eventually. They always did. Still, she had done all she could and that was what mattered the most. 

But she didn’t need a trinket or photo to remember. They always stayed with her, not one of them forgotten in place of another. Mary Poppins believed that was how it should be.


	22. Jealousy

Some frivolous lacy white hat, adorned with what seemed like a dozen roses. It wasn’t in Mary’s taste but she wasn’t the one wearing it. 

Draped entirely in white, some young woman pressed her gloved hand against Bert’s arm, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. He offered an abashed smile in return. She seemed to think it was funny, laughing. 

Mary found it less amusing. 

Taking her current children to the park to be met with such impudence, right here for everyone to see. She had every right to be offended. 

Prompting the children to move along, she decided they would go somewhere else for the day. Clearly, Bert was occupied with more important matters. Not that it was any of her business. 

Mary should have taken her own advice. 

She thought of nothing else all day. Some dark feeling threatening to overcome her, muddling her thinking until she heard the sound of raindrops against the windowpane. Across the horizon, dark clouds were forming. There was a storm headed for London. 

This was all Bert’s fault. 

Shutting the window, the shudder of glass informed everyone that Mary was above such pretence. Still, she thought of him the next day too.


	23. Insanity

Mr Banks had been enraged by the cold water that was awaiting his morning shave, coming downstairs, only to bring the bottom newel cap with him. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he yelled to nobody in particular, holding up the wooden ball in his hand. 

The bottom post of the staircase looked rather empty without it. Mrs Banks came hurrying from the parlour to apologise, having been scolding Ellen for the vase she had broken earlier that morning. 

Ellen was now crying in the kitchen, Mrs Brill trying to comfort her as she made breakfast. Robertson Ay was nowhere to be found- asleep in the cupboard under the stairs, leaning on the mop and bucket. 

John and Barbara had been arguing all morning, Jane had returned from school only to have her reading book ruined by Annabel’s glass of milk, and Michael had decided he was in a Bad Mood. And nobody was to disturb him. 

The only person who didn’t seem to mind was Mary Poppins. Whisking around the house, the breakfast was completed, Ellen had been given some tissues, and the children were promptly told to be quiet before they received no sweets after dinner. 

“I have never,” she stated with a threatening sniff, “been involved in such hullabaloo. I am almost inclined to believe that I am at the Zoo. Orangutans and chimpanzees, the lot of you! What madness.”

She had said it in such a way that even Mr Banks was regretful. He decided that tomorrow would be the best time to shave.


	24. A Snowy Day

Climbing down from the carriage, the Gentoo penguin doffed his top hat, wishing them a good day. Jane and Michael were already rushing across the frozen expanse, having promised a game of cricket to some nearby polar bears.

Mary let them leave. It had been a while since their last Jolly Holiday. With an exaggerated bow, Bert appeared beside her, offering his hand. She didn’t hesitate. 

They waltzed across the snow and ice, the perfected landscape remaining unmarked by their footprints. It would have been impolite to ruin such a scene. Barely aware of their surroundings, they danced under the southern lights till they felt almost breathless. 

Pausing, they came to a stop near a bench made entirely from ice. A convenient finding. Sitting together, her voice was as soft as the falling snow, thanking him as he kissed her gloved hand. Although their skin did not touch, she felt as if there were nothing between them. He would never know if the blush was for him or the cold air. 

They lingered a moment, enjoying the view. Hand-in-hand, she stood, him following. A minute later, he pulled her back, causing them to halt. 

“Let’s not wait so long next time.”

She sighed happily. “No, let’s not.”

Sharing a tender kiss, the moment was over before they could savour it. 

They returned to the home of the polar bears, their hands disentangling before they were in sight. A look shared that only they knew the meaning of. Standing amid the glaciers of the North Pole, at the entrance of the polar bears’ hollowed cave, Mary felt warm.


	25. Sculpture

“But I don’t care for Queen Victoria! She’s boring and she’s fat. King George is in charge now.”

“The word is monarch, Michael. He is our monarch,” Jane corrected.

Mary Poppins refrained from raising an eyebrow, clutching onto her umbrella with a surprisingly firm grip. The Banks children clearly needed a history lesson. As quickly as possible. 

“I suppose you would be that rude to her face?” she challenged. “Our longest reigning monarch to date.”

Michael folded his arms, bottom lip jutting out. “Yes, I would.”

Words needn’t be wasted on the ignorant. Mary had no time to lecture him, not this morning. She barely had the patience. 

Behind Jane and Michael, Queen Victoria looked down from her podium, austere and formidable. Mary respected that, staring into her marbled features until she felt a shift in the atmosphere that satisfied her. An unspoken confirmation that the children could never understand. 

From up above, a demanding yell pierced the air. “Do you have something to say, young man?”

Startled, Michael spun around, tripping backwards at the sight of Queen Victoria staring down at him, her staff in one hand. Pointing directedly at his face. 

“Blimey!” he exclaimed. 

Mary observed the statue, curious, before looking down at Michael. “Didn’t you have something to tell her?”

He looked between the two, quite speechless. Only Jane’s giggles filled the silence as he found himself trying to apologise for his Bad Manners.


	26. Chapter 26

Flicking through the heap of letters, Mary felt the urge to mutter, unsure of why Bert felt it necessary to keep so many strange items. Including a small box that contained nothing but envelopes, wedged to the brim with handwritten messages. Yet, she answered her own question when she realised who had written them. Mary would be foolish to not recognise her own handwriting. 

“You kept all of these?” she asked, incredulous. 

Bert shrugged, hands in pockets. “Well, o’ course. I’ve kept every letter you’ve sent me. Like to read them now and again.”

She had never seen him read them. Touched as she was, she frowned across at him. 

“A little excessive, don’t you think?”

“Hardly an inconvenience when it’s for my darling,” he grinned.

Humming in acceptance, she placed the lid back onto the box. “Well, I am very flattered that you feel the need to do that.”

“Besides, you keep all of my letters.”

“I do not!” Her cheeks flushed.

Bert took his hands from his pockets, resting them on her hips. “I didn’t think Mary Poppins was a liar.”

“That’s because I’m not a liar,” she insisted, letting him pull her into an embrace. “I keep your letters in case I forget your address.”

“If you can’t remember my address after all of these years, I’d be a little worried,” he laughed, chin coming to rest on her head. “Memory as sharp as yours. Plus, there is one other thing…”

She leant back, eyes widening. “What?”

“You live with me. You should know your own address.”

The edge of her mouth twitched before she fell back into his embrace, cheek pressed against his shoulder. “I am nothing if not prepared, Mr Alfred. You should know that.”

Bert smirked, gaze falling to the box behind her. Remembering each time he had returned home to find a letter waiting for him, the hours he had spent tracing her handwriting, the way she spelt his name. And eventually, the way she had written ‘yours always’. 

“I do know that, my love, because I know you.”


	27. Smoke, Fog, Haze

A rare occasion, indeed. 

Navigating the streets of London town, barely a consideration for where she was going, Mary Poppins never once lessened her determined stride. She was currently on her way back to Uncle Albert’s house after a day of errands. There had been enough time to visit a friend or two, but she had deliberately avoided her friends that day. 

One friend, in particular. 

Blinking in surprise, she came to a stop, realising that she had walked into a part of town that she was unfamiliar with. She had been too distracted to give any thought as to where she was going. Unwisely trusting that she would know the way home. Around her, an impenetrable fog was rising. Shaming her for being so distracted. 

For you see, Mary was muddled. 

“A nice mess you’ve gone and gotten yourself into,” she snapped. 

Flickering into life, the street lamp shimmered behind her, lighting her path. 

“And ‘oo might you be talkin’ to?” 

Bert was hanging from the lamppost, one foot on the ladder. She raised a brow, displeased to see how little he cared for safety precautions. 

“Myself, if that pleases you to hear.” She clutched the handle of her bag a little tighter. “Why are you hanging from the lamppost like a chimpanzee?”

“It’s my job, o’ course.” He hopped down, knowing he hadn’t properly answered her question. 

Curious, she thought. To find herself muddled, thinking of the one person she had tried to avoid, and she had found herself walking right to him. Where he had proceeded to clear the fog around her. 

“I didn’t see you around this morning?” his voice cut through her nervous speculation. He winked. “No’ avoidin’ me, are you, Mary Poppins?”

“I most certainly am not,” she retorted. “Why would I be avoiding you?”

Bert leant against the post, watching her with visible amusement. He was enjoying this game. “Per’aps my skilful kissing was too much for you.”

Exactly the subject she had wanted to avoid, she emitted a disbelieving scoff. “As if you would be so lucky.”

He pushed away from the post, collecting his ladder and satchel filled with various tools. 

“Let me walk you ‘ome. It’s a little foggy tonight.”

And it’s all your fault, she thought. If he hadn’t been so sweet and understanding the day before, she wouldn’t have let him kiss her. Then she wouldn’t have had to avoid him. And perhaps, she wouldn’t let him kiss her again when they reached the front door. But she seldom followed her own advice when it came to sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't hyped about this one when I originally wrote it and without re-reading it, I'm going to trust it's okay to publish... Call it a leap of faith if you will. 
> 
> Also, a reminder that I still have the MP discord and it's slowly building so please comment if you want to join. It'll be fun to have a load of people who love the films, the books, the musical etc...


	28. Closed Doors

Where there was once silence, there was laughter. Amid the cherry tree blossoms, balloons bounced above- green, blue, pink. Each one filled with the spirit of its holder. Neither Jane nor Michael seemed to remember the Balloon Lady from their childhood, nor her inflated marvels that had been waiting for them. Their names inscribed on each. 

Now, there were balloons for a new generation- one for John, one for Annabel, and one for little Georgie. 

They floated above the cherry trees, their light-headedness keeping them from touching the ground. What a sight they made. John was halfway through a roll, stuck on his back in mid-air, and Annabel was tugging at him, giggling the same way her aunt did. As for Georgie, he was hopping up and down. Bouncing until he was neither here nor there. 

Clinging firmly onto Jack’s vest, Jane needn’t fear heights. She hadn’t once looked down, her attention solely on the man beside her. Hardly perceptive when it came to these things, Michael didn’t notice. His own laughter resounded across the street, trying to recreate John’s mid-air roll. 

Their feet landed soundly onto the steps of Number Seventeen, Cherry Tree Lane. As if askew, the world seemed to set itself right. Unravelled by grief, they had been tied together with a little love. And string. 

It needn’t matter if it was a kite or a balloon, whether they were going to the park or coming back. All that mattered was that they were together. And the Banks family remained in Number Seventeen- where they belonged. 

The black-painted door closed resolutely behind them, their laughter drowned out with a final click of the lock. They hardly noticed the wind blowing west. A lone balloon floating upward, its owner following closely behind with the use of an umbrella. Besides, it was impossible for such a thing to happen. Preposterous. Nobody could simply fly into the air, disappearing into the clouds with nothing but a loose balloon, an umbrella, and a carpet bag. Can you imagine that?


	29. Wonder

There had been her new snakeskin belt, a birthday gift from her distant cousin, and there had been the sugar dusted stars from Mrs Corry’s shop, which she pasted back onto the sky with nothing but a paintbrush and some glue. 

Orion had taken her ticket and allowed her entrance to the Sun’s circus. She had seen Venus jump through a hoop, Saturn fall onto his bottom, and had the Great Bear and Little Bear recite a poem dedicated to her name. All in her Evening Off.

She had attended afternoon tea underwater, upside down, and on the ceiling. It didn’t matter to her. As long as she had some tea to drink.

Danced with Kings and Queens, some human, some not. Dined with the cow who jumped over the moon and exchanged sharp words with the Dirty Rascal. She had been at the court proceedings for the rude raven who pecked off the maid’s nose, where afterwards, she had accompanied Jack and Jill up the hill. This time, they learnt to watch where they were going. 

From the friends who lived under dandelions to the various felines who resided on a planet uninhibited by humans, Mary had seen the wonders of the world. And much more. 

But she had never felt so much wonder as when Herbert Alfred told her he loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to toot my own horn but this is a personal favourite. Hope you enjoy.


	30. War and Peace

Taking care with the bandage, Mary didn’t hesitate, even when there was a low groan. The sight was not pleasant but that was to be expected, when a newly amputated leg was to be cared for. 

She had whispered well wishes and reassurance, knowing it would not be enough. Words of comfort and a little magic could not heal the scars of war. 

If the wind called her, she left, always finding a child in need. But the wind was less persistent nowadays, leaving her to tend to patients at the hospital. They needed her too. Some of them were still children themselves. 

Mary never stopped to consider the sight before her; there was much to be done. It was hard to apply magic when there was none left, nor could she turn this into a game. This was something that even she couldn’t fix.

Passing a radio atop a bedside table, a crackly voice told her that Allied soldiers had landed in the Philippines. They were hoping this meant the war may be over soon- that had been the same sentiment a year ago and the year before that. 

It was hard to find hope but Mary Poppins knew she would find it somewhere. Perhaps she had misplaced it. Scoffing, she knew she’d never misplaced anything, yet in this trying time, it was more comforting to think she had. 

If they could not make peace, she would make her own. A little impossible but she did not believe in impossible things. These men needed an escape from reality and who was she to deny them that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely fond of this one but here we are.


	31. Dream

A lovely little cottage, white-painted with a matching white fence. Along the inside perimeter, an array of flowers, all colourful and well-tended. Up the pathway he went. Bert had never seen anything so lovely. So comforting. 

He knocked on the door. Unsure as to why, but he knew that someone would answer the door. 

And they did. Or rather, she did.

Mary was waiting for him, a greeting and his name sounding so simple when she said it. Words she had said so many times before, yet he never grew tired of hearing them. 

Stepping across the threshold, there wasn’t much to say that they hadn’t already talked about. How he was doing, how she was, who she cared for now, and which chimney sweep had fallen for a girl he met while out and about. All those familiar topics that felt safe and needed. 

They sat hand-in-hand, drinking raspberry tea and eating cucumber sandwiches (a favourite of his). Makes him refined, he always said. To which she replied that he was already a gentleman. He made a point of holding out his pinkie while he ate them; it never failed to make her laugh. 

Then they had danced awhile, holding each other close as the radio played. First, a waltz; after, the Charleston. He had danced that on his own. Mary would not even entertain the notion. Finally completed by a slow dance; the soulful voice of Vera Lynn marking their goodbye. 

We’ll meet again. Don’t know where, don’t know when.

Not entirely true. He knew where. At their usual spot at the Park or, if they were lucky, when she returned to her Uncle Albert’s on her holidays between work. She would catch him cleaning the chimney, painting the spare bedroom, or fixing a jammed window. 

With a lingering kiss, they held each other’s hands, caught between their bodies as they became distracted. It had been too long. 

He went back down the path with a cheery wave, a cucumber sandwich wrapped in his handkerchief, resting in his pocket. She waved back, a little more solemn, her hand reaching up to grasp the silver locket around her neck. 

“We’ll meet again,” he called to her.

“I’m sure we will,” she answered. 

And then Bert was staring at his ceiling, having awoken from his dream. Knowing somewhere on this Earth, she was waking too. 

Disbelievers would say that it was all in the mind. Mary couldn’t possibly speak to him in his dreams, but Bert knew better. Whistling his way to work that morning, he munched on the cucumber sandwich that he had kept in his pocket. A perfect way to start the day.


	32. Betrayal

She had practically given them the answer without saying a word. A little dance, a little song. Something for the children to enjoy, sitting among the animals that resided in their own nursey. Mary didn’t think she could be any clearer. 

See the shadows, the swinging pocket watch, and there the answer lay. 

So simple that even the children understood. And yet, not the adults. Mary knew Michael was cleverer than that, but he was no longer a child. He could only see what he wanted to. 

A pity, she thought, as she watched the three of her charges tumble up the stairs. They were so much like their father. 

From the moment she had stepped into the bank, Mary knew there was something wrong. She could almost feel the way it tugged at the tails of her coat. If she were to help the Banks’s once more, she must also be rid of any pests that were lurking around the house. And that included a wolf named Wilkins.


	33. Rules

Being Mrs Banks. What did that entail?

An endless list that could never be completed, no matter how much she achieved. She had hired the house staff; they weren’t good enough. Became a mother to be told that children were too inconvenient. Birthed more children; they were never going to repaint the front door now- not that he had thought of that when he agreed to the act. Hired a succession of nannies; they had been too strict, too kind, too everything. She had socialised like a good housewife but her friends had been too frivolous, and when she had found a cause that she believed in, she had been told that the suffragette movement infuriated him. 

Mrs Banks attended to every one of his whims. Yes, dear. No, dear. I couldn’t have said it better, dear.

It seemed a lifetime ago that she had opened the back-stage door one summer evening, only to find a nervous young man offering her a marigold that he had purchased at the market. His ears had stuck out a little, propping up the bowler hat that was a size too big. He had introduced himself as George. Over time, he had left her. Only Mr Banks remained. And with every twitch of his moustache, she was reminded that she could not please him. 

He would take to explaining, time and time again, where she had gone wrong. What was expected of Mrs Banks, for there were standards to be upheld. So simple that even she could understand. But she was not applying for a formal position; they were supposed to be partners. 

Entering the parlour, she took a deep breath. The children were at the park, her husband at the bank; the only sounds were of Ellen’s footsteps creaking around upstairs and Mrs Brill humming in the kitchen. Atop the mantelpiece was a collection of marigolds. 

“Oh, George,” she sighed. Crossing the room, she plucked a marigold from the vase, catching its scent as she did. “Whatever shall we do with you?’

She broke the flowerhead from its stem, tucking it through the metal clasp of the suffragette flag pinned to her chest. Slipping the sash around her head, Winifred looked down at the words printed across its front. 

There were guidelines in place for people like her- mothers, daughters, wives. Her husband placed his faith in this law and order, but Winifred could not do the same. She no longer wanted to follow those rules. If that made her a disgrace in the eyes of her husband then so be it. Surely, Mrs Banks had a say in her own destiny?


	34. Tomorrow

Michael lounged back, his feet coming to rest on the foot stool opposite, hands beside his head. Catching sight of him, Jane placed her hands on her hips. 

“What are you doing?” she chastised. 

He barely glanced in her direction. Smug, he pretended to think about her question. 

“I’ve decided there’s no point doing my chores,” he told her, smartly. “I have all day tomorrow.”

A smile tugged at Jane’s lips, chuckling lowly. “Is that so? Well then, why don’t you tell that to Mary Poppins?”

His own smirk lessened. Gulping, he said nothing for a moment. Then he looked across at her, accusatory. “You’re a tattle tale. Mind your own business and do your chores!”

Jane opened her mouth wide, as if to shout for the nanny, but without saying a word, Mary Poppins burst through the door. She saw Michael lounging in the chair. He quickly dropped his feet to the floor, sitting up straight. But it was too late. 

“I…”

“What is the meaning of this?” she exclaimed, a dreadful expression on her face. “Lounging about like the King when you haven’t finished your chores, Michael Banks?”

“He said he would do them tomorrow for he’s not busy then,” Jane remarked. She peered across with a self-righteous sneer. 

Michael would have told her exactly what he thought of that. If Mary Poppins hadn’t been there. Towering above him, she held out a finger, threateningly. 

“Tomorrow never comes for little boys who don’t finish their chores. Tomorrow is often the busiest day of the week, you know!”

“I didn’t know,” Michael exclaimed, eyes wide as he realised what that meant. “I’m sorry, Mary Poppins.”

She hummed in annoyance, one last furious look shot his way before she bustled around the nursery. However, Michael really did feel sorry. For himself. Now, he would have to finish his chores.


	35. Rock n' Roll

Mary bustled through the streets, not once slowing her pace. Even as the heat made sweat bead on the back of her neck. She was not one to be late and she must return home soon. The Fitzgeralds would be waiting. 

Having done the shopping for Mrs Fitzgerald, she had promised to be back in time for dinner. She was used to calling the meal ‘tea’, but the Americans had their funny ways. Nevertheless, this was where the wind had brought her and she would complete her work. 

She passed a church, white-washed brick and a plain wooden crucifix outside. Her stepped faltered, unusual for her, but her attention had been caught by a little boy on the steps of the church, guitar in hand. He strummed the instrument, his fingers changing chords in an uneven rhythm. 

“That is a funny way of playing guitar,” she told him.

The boy glanced up, pausing his lively tune. “I wouldn’t say that, ma’am. There’s loads of ways to play a guitar.”

Mary smiled. “Well, you are quite talented, either way.”

“Why, thank you. I practice every day.” He beamed up at her. “My parents let me. I get to play sometimes during service.”

Bending down slightly, so as not to tower above him, she nodded in approval. “That’s good to hear…”

“My name’s Charles but you can call me Chuck.”

She held out her hand, still gloved, even in the heat. He eyed the gesture, weary. Scrutinising her face and then the hand, he decided that she meant no harm. They shook hands. 

“I am not a fan of such music myself,” she said, “but I expect great things from you, Mr Berry. Keep working hard and you’ll make history.”

“I don’t know about that,” he shrugged. 

Mary stood straight, feeling the weight in her arms from the brown paper bag. The shopping beginning to take its toll. 

“I must be going but good luck; I doubt you’ll need it.” She barely waved goodbye as she continued on her way. “And finish your chores tonight, please.”

The boy barely had time to respond before she disappeared. To him, she seemed a strange woman, but he felt that she meant well. That there was something about her to trust. Continuing his guitar practice, it didn’t occur to him until later that day that she had known his last name. Even though he hadn’t told her. 

But he forgot that within seconds. Inconsequential compared to what she had told him- that he would make history. Somehow, he trusted that she was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this week has been crazy. I've been down to London and then it was my brothers' birthday. I haven't even had time to upload but I'm back again! Hope everyone is okay and had an awesome Easter.


	36. Refugee

Dusk had come early. Wintertime was cruel to those who could not afford comfort. Mary laid out the blanket, covering the three children that stared wide-eyed up at her. They were freezing. Unused to European temperatures, the people who resided in this camp struggled to endure the winter months. 

With a chill breeze, the wind had brought her here. To an ever-growing collection of temporary settlements on the outskirts of France, where families waited to be granted mercy. By the government, by religious groups, by anyone who would help. 

For the time being, Mary was one of those few people who offered her assistance. She was here to ensure nothing happened to the children, but it was clear to see that everyone needed support. Even if it was a simple greeting or a smile. 

Mary made sure the children were tucked tightly and warmly in their blanket, hearing the crackling of a woodfire nearby and the babble of conversation in various languages. One of her wards stared up at her, whispering her name.

“Yes?” she hummed. 

“When will we find a new home?” 

She couldn’t say. Never one to break promises, she couldn’t even vow that they would be safe. Yet, as long as they were with her, they would be. But the wind was unpredictable. 

“One day, you will have a home,” she told them, voice unusually tender. “You must be good for your mother. She works hard to try and find somewhere for you to live. In the meantime, you must stay strong.”

“And you won’t leave us?”

“I will stay till the fire burns out.”

All three glanced across at the fire in their shack, praying that in the morning, it would still be burning bright. Mary left them to sleep, standing outside and looking once more over the huts, shacks, and tents that had been made for temporary accommodation. 

The whole world had become muddled and topsy-turvy. What a time to be living in.


	37. Dear Diary

Bert chewed the end of his pen, glancing over the other side of the kitchen table. Arms crossed, brow raised, Mary didn’t look so pleased at the interruption.

“I think it would be nice,” he insisted, flashing her a charming grin.

She sniffed. “Don’t be sweet with me. I already said no.”

“Bu’ you’ve had so many amazing experiences and it would be good t’ jot it down.” He added another encouraging smile. “You know, in case you forget.”

Mary scoffed. “I never forget.”

Bert took no mind, scribbling something down. The motion peaked her interest and she peered across. Holding the journal up so she couldn’t see, he grinned at her, barely visible behind the book. 

“What did you write?” she asked, suddenly curious. 

“The date we met.”

“That was a lovely day. It was mild and the spring had just arrived.” She sighed happily, distracted by the thought.

Bert wrote down what she said, adding his own note. “And the sun was shining bright.” 

A content smile appeared on her lips, the sight promising. Bert was not one to miss an opportunity. 

“Well, if we can’ talk abou’ some of the families, we could a’ least talk about us.”

Mary stared across at him, her gaze softening. “Yes, I suppose that would be nice, wouldn’t it? We wouldn’t want to forget.”

Bert was already writing manically, pleased to have gotten her permission. “No, we wouldn’t.”


	38. Mirror

Mary would start the day by looking at her reflection in the mirror. Even after she had woken up, she looked practically perfect. The pillow never mussed her hair and she arose radiant, no dark lines under her eyes. How lovely she was. 

While she bustled around the house, she often caught sight of herself in the various mirrors. The full-length one in the nursery, the one above the sink, and if the light caught the glass just right, the kitchen window made for excellent viewing. Of herself. 

Satisfied, Mary couldn’t think of anything she’d rather look at. How prim and smart she looked. How right. 

With her new red hat, the one with the dove feather, she bustled around town. Feeling very important indeed. The children could complain all they wanted, she would not hurry for them. 

Letting the children explore the toy shop at the corner of the street, she noticed a kaleidoscope sitting in the window. How wonderful to have several Mary Poppins displayed in her new hat. In technicolour, no less.

Smiling at her own reflection, they winked back at her. One waved. Batting away their silent compliments, she returned her own wink. What a pleasure to be Mary Poppins.


	39. Magic Trick

Closing ‘The Wind in the Willows’, Michael blinked, feeling his eyes beginning to dry. The sudden gust of wind had taken him by surprise. Beside him, Jane giggled. She had enjoyed watching the way his hair blew backwards, his collar flicking upward in the strong breeze. 

Opening her own book, she squealed in fear, slamming it shut again. Michael returned her cruel laughter from earlier. 

“I suppose the Sword in the Stone wasn’t a good choice,” she muttered, staring down at the cover. As if she expected the sword to burst forth from the drawing on its front. 

“I told you to pick carefully,” Mary lectured. “Once again, you never listen.”

Opening her own book to read, she had chosen Doctor Doolittle, a story she enjoyed. From inside, they heard a dog bark happily up at her from its pages. 

While she was distracted, Michael leant closer to Jane, whispering furiously. “I told you she was tricky. These are all just magic tricks.”

Mary slammed her book shut, glaring across at him. “Tricks? A respectable woman like me performing silly parlour tricks? How dare you!”

Seated by the window, Bert looked up from Robinson Crusoe, the blazing sun shining through. He jumped to his feet when he heard her exclamation, slowly closing his novel of choice. The Caribbean sun had been a welcome distraction. 

“You wanna see a magic trick, Michael?” he asked. His enthusiasm only made him more suspicious. “A real magic trick?”

“All magic tricks are unseemly,” Mary haughtily noted. 

Ignoring her, he flicked out his hand, a red carnation sliding from out of his sleeve. Bert caught it with expert precision. Bowing dramatically, he held out the carnation in Mary’s direction, his grin only getting wider as he noted the smile she was trying to repress. 

“For you, Mary Poppins.”

Mary held it daintily between her gloved fingers, taking a moment to inhale its scent. “Yes, well, I suppose this kind of magic is quite alright.”

Jane was disappointed, clasping her hands behind her back. “It’s a shame you don’t have another one.”

For me- she hadn’t finished the sentence. 

“I wouldn’t know about that.” Bert flicked out his other hand, a sunflower appearing from his left sleeve. 

Jane and Michael were too distracted to hear Mary ask him when he had the time to fit a sunflower in his jacket. Not that Bert told her; a magician never reveals his secrets.


	40. Radio

_After ten o’ clock, over one hundred German aircrafts have been destroyed in today’s raids over this country._

Mary carefully stitched the wool, feeling as if it was the most precious thing in the world. Awake at midnight, listening to the soft even breathing of her wards and the quiet radio that sat in her room. She knew there would be no bad news. People didn’t want to hear it, but she did. 

_Today was the most costive on the German air-force in nearly a month._

If she wanted, she could find the answers for herself. Mary would be gone and back again before anybody in the house awoke. Yet, such power would cost her. 

“Where are you, Bert?” she whispered, brow furrowing as she continued to knit. 

She had promised him that he would have a proper scarf when he returned. He had gone without one and wrapping her own around his neck, she knew it was not much. But he had said it was perfect.

The red against his uniform allowed him to stand out and like all the other men that had left, he promised her that he would return. They would be victorious. 

With no recent letters and no news on the radio, Mary had tried to repress the unwanted feelings that resided deep in her chest. Her fingers trembled as she continued to knit the scarf. 

_In daylight raid, between…_

Turning the radio off, Mary sat in silence, wool pooled on her lap. Inhaling a shaky breath, she slowly let out the air through her lips. Letting the emotion leave before it kept her awake all night. Leaving her handiwork in the top drawer of her desk, she ran her fingers along the material for a minute, before closing the drawer shut. 

Mary lay in the dark, chastising herself for not sleeping. For letting such sentiment affect her work. That night, she did not count sheep. Only the seconds till she could see Bert again.


	41. Prostitute

The grunts were repulsive. Yet, the weighty thump of an umbrella handle was enough to put an end to it. Hand covering where he had been hit, the man spun around, ready to attack whoever had disturbed him. 

To his surprise, he saw a woman on the other side of the alley. The other side being only centimetres away, as the passage was quite narrow. She was not the kind of woman he expected to see in this part of the city, a grimace forming as he scrutinised her appearance.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” he yelled, pointing across at her. “You better be on your way unless you want t’ end up like her.”

Even in the dark, her eyes were shining like the daytime sky. But there was a fury in them that was horrifying to see. Taking a step back, the man bumped into the girl, who pushed him away with a word of warning. She had covered herself to be somewhat modest, having heard the voice of someone else. 

“This girl is not even an adult,” the woman said, her usual politeness threatening. “And you dare to take advantage of her circumstance.”

The man blinked across, a little slow in his inebriation. “Wha’ did I say, lady? Mind your own business or else…”

“Or else what?” 

Her snappish response made him pause before he took a determined step toward her. “Or else I’ll have t’ teach you a lesson.”

Before he could take another step, he began to shrink, his protests becoming shriller and shriller until it was no more than a squeak. She looked down at him, tapping her foot against the cobbled ground.

“If you insist on acting like a rat then you shall be one,” she told him, hands on hips. “Men of your kind are shameful. When I come back tomorrow, I hope you have learnt your lesson else there will be hell to pay and I will summon a policeman at once.”

The young girl spoke across. “Thanks, miss…”

“And you, young lady…” Mary gestured for her to follow, already making her way out of the alley. The dust and grime didn’t dare touch her garments. “You are coming with me.”


	42. Celebrating A Birthday

There had been multiple invitations. Everybody wanted to be the host for this special occasion, no expense spared. Through the post came invitations galore- some powdered in star dust, others made from wood, and one was sealed with the Sun’s kiss. 

There had been leaves etched with symbols that only she could understand, a clock face that was stuck on only one time for one day, and a yellow egg that opened with a click to reveal a holographic ballroom. 

Mary had replied to each one, thanking them all for their thoughtfulness. It always felt nice to be wanted. But she had other plans. 

Expressing their condolences, they retreated, knowing that her mind had been Made Up. Besides, this was a day where she could do as she pleased- arguably, much like any other day. 

Once the children had been put to bed and she had left for her Evening Out, she headed toward the city’s art gallery. She had heard there was a certain exhibition being displayed there that had caught her interest. 

The rooms were teeming with admirers and yet, nobody noticed her disappear in the midst of a crowd. Adults often overlooked the improbable. And so, she was free to roam her painting of choice, enjoying the silence that it brought. The calm. 

Her clothes had faded into brush strokes, similar to the art style. The smart black coat and hat, alongside her maroon scarf, blended nicely with the background. Pleased with herself, she was busy admiring her reflection on the surface of the water when a sharp whistle caught her attention. 

“Bert! You made it!”

His voice was muffled by her sudden embrace, his arms wrapping around her. “I wouldn’t have missed i’ for the world.”

Even more pleased, she pulled back, linking their arms together. They mustn’t forget propriety, no matter where they were. 

“Where to now?” she questioned, sensing he already knew the answer. 

“I think we can take a nice stroll across the river and along there…” He pointed out the lights reflected across the water, shining from squared windows. “There’s a nice spot to sit and eat.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

They went on their way, talking about her day and his. How long it had been since they last saw each other (only four days) and the friends they had seen in the meantime. Mary couldn’t have been happier. This was exactly how she had wanted to spend her birthday. It truly was a starry night over the Rhone and as they strolled alongside the riverside, her content smile was reflected across the rippled surface. Bathed in the gentle glow of moonlight.


	43. Swearing

Sweeping the remnants of soot, the stained rag did little to clean the black smears across his face. The beads of sweat on his brow helped somewhat, smudging a line across his forehead. On all fours, Bert tucked the rag into the front pocket of his jacket, sitting up once he’d done. The top of his head hit against the fireplace with a terrible smack.

His hand flew up to rest against the spot he’d hit, no doubt a bruise forming. “Blast my gizzard, that hurt.”

“Is that how you usually speak in the presence of a lady?”

He spun around with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, Mar’. I hit my head a little harder than I wanted, that’s all.”

She was collecting the white sheets from around the room, bundling them in her arms. “It seems you’ve been spending too much time with Admiral Boom. That’s what I think.”

“You might be right, love,” he grinned sheepishly.

Bert stopped every morning to have a chat with the Admiral and if he was in a hurry, he would wait until the evening when he was walking home. He enjoyed their conversations. Hearing about all the places the Admiral had been, the knowledge he’d obtained. Bert was envious, to say the least. Knowing that other people had travelled the world and seen its wonders. Mary found that difficult to understand when she had also travelled far and wide. 

Stepping behind him, Mary bent down, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Would you like a kiss to make it better?”

“Tha’ would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he beamed.

She returned the smile, leaving a softly pressed kiss to his bruised head. Hand brushing through his hair as she went on her way, Bert felt his grin getting wider. She was right- as always. He did feel better.


	44. Parade

Jigging from one foot to the other, Bert glanced up to see what Mary thought. Arms crossed, she hardly seemed amused, but the laughter in her eyes gave her away. 

“What is this for, precisely?” 

Bert held out his arms so she could see his clothes- the black trousers, white shirt, and multicoloured vest. With a wiggle of one leg, the bells strapped around his shins made a sharp jingling sound.

“It’s a dance festival! They will be parading around London next week.” Hands on his hips, he was clearly pleased with himself. “I agreed to help with the Morris dancing. Some of the boys will be doing it as well.”

Mary laughed, the sound light and airy. “Oh, Bert! What shall I do with you? I suppose I shall have to go see you perform.”

“Well, you don’t have to…”

“I would love to,” she corrected.

Cheeks burning red, Bert took the cap from his head to twist in his hands. “W-well then, I best up my game.”

Hearing the front door close, Mary knew Uncle Albert had returned. She sighed lightly, standing and facing the parlour door. 

“I hope you have a plan for how to get down because Uncle Albert is back,” she told him. “And the sight of you is enough to keep him up there for days.”

Bert was already giggling. “Don’t worry, Mary. You can always help. Besides, little Jack is coming with me to the festival. If I’m still up there, he’ll be able to help, no problem.” 

“I doubt that. I’ve seen him conversing with Miss Jane Banks in the park and they’re both as bad as each other. Extremely prone to giggling.”

The door opened, Uncle Albert already laughing at the sight of Bert. With a quick kiss to her uncle’s temple, Mary left them to laugh away their amusement. They could always spare an hour or two. As she started preparing dinner, she could hear the silver bells on Bert’s uniform jingling in time with their laughter. Incorrigible, the both of them.


	45. Phobias

Astounded by the question, even more so that he’d had to ask, Mary felt herself retorting the answer before she’d even considered it. “No, I do not have any fears, Herbert Alfred. Don’t be so ridiculous.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair by the window. The question had occurred to him while they were sitting together, her mending a patch in his jacket and him listening to the radio. Bert wanted to know everything about her, yet if he didn’t ask, he was sure she would never say. 

“Was only asking,” he hummed, enjoying the tinned sound of a piano as it crackled through the speakers.

“Fear is only a matter of perception,” she told him, concentrating on the pattern of her needle as it wove through the fabric.

“I suppose…”

They continued in silence. Mary couldn’t begin to fathom why he would ask such a silly question; he knew better than that. There was nothing in this world that she possibly had to fear. Glancing across, she felt the need to tell him so, pausing when she saw his figure slouched in the chair.

One grey strand wove through his dark hair. An unnatural sight, considering how he usually looked. Yet, its appearance was nothing but natural- everyone must age sometime. 

Realising her distraction, she continued sewing the jacket. Mary suddenly felt inclined to leave the subject be; perhaps Bert hadn’t been so silly to ask. Fear wasn’t always a matter of perception. It could be real. Very real. And nothing panicked her more than that one strand of hair.


	46. Refreshed

Scrubbed clean, three glowing faces grinned up at her. A little different to their sceptical reception. Two pairs of brown eyes and one green, wonderment glimmering there. Used to such a reaction, she continued around the nursery, draping their pyjamas on the end of the bed. 

“Can we do it again, Mary Poppins?” came a little voice.

Georgie stared up at her, his golden hair peeping out from the towel he’d burrowed himself in. 

“No, it is bedtime,” she replied, pleased to see the other two already clambering into their nightwear. 

They were smiling, laughing. Even if they didn’t yet trust her. That was what they needed after the year they’d had- a little light-heartedness. A reminder that fun could still be had, even in the simplest of forms. 

The Banks needed tidying here and there, not that they believed this to be the case. In time, they would see. Children must be children, after all.


	47. Holding Hands

Bert shuffled through the contents of the basket, head almost bent inside. “We have some cake and tea and raspberry ice, o’ course. A nice treat, I thought, considering the weather today is be-au-tiful.”

“That’s very kind of you, Bert,” came the response.

Beaming, his head shot up, peering over his shoulder at the woman beside him. “Oh, well, it’s nothing. Anything for you, Mary Poppins.”

Mary was leaning back, hands propping her up as they pressed against the picnic blanket. Her face was turned toward the sky, eyes closed as she enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It hardly seemed like the Mary Poppins she was known to be. Rather, she was the Mary that only Bert had the privilege of seeing. 

A smile tugged at her lips as she heard his voice, a content sigh escaping. She peeked across, offering a grateful nod. 

“You are always such a good host.” She accepted the raspberry ice that he handed to her. “For once, you must let me treat you.”

“No need!” he insisted, turning back to face her fully. Leaving the picnic basket forgotten. “You’re the reason we’re ‘ere. I can’t ask for more than that.”

She leant across, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, one hand resting atop his. “Then accept my thanks.”

Bert tried to dampen the pink shade that was rising in his cheeks, noticing how her hand remained on his, even when she sat back. “Consider it accepted…”

Mary laughed, light and airy. It seemed appropriate for the spring day; the sun a little brighter at the sound. They continued to sit together, enjoying the various treats he had brought with him, including the special gingerbread he had acquired from Mrs Corry. Neither felt the need to let go of the other’s hand. So, there they stayed.


	48. Telephone

“I can hardly believe it! With jus’ a click of ya fingers. It’s extraordinary! Who would have thought it, ay Mary? They even have this game. It’s called Flappy Bird.”

Bert waved the mobile phone in the air, laughing to himself. He was more than amazed at what technology had produced. Having delayed the inevitable, he had gone long enough without purchasing a phone. Yet, he had begun to realise how efficient it would be if he wanted to contact Mary, especially while she was abroad. 

“It’s like sending a letter but you’ll get it instantly.”

Mary peered across at him, amused by how thrilled he was. “I don’t have my phone while I’m with the children, Bert.”

“Oh, I know.” He stared down at the phone in his hand. “But it’s nice to think you’ll see it later that day.” Pausing, a grin slowly spread across his lips. “Like this.”

Quickly, he tapped something into the device, sitting back with a smirk. She heard her phone buzz in her bag. Pursing her lips, she glared mockingly at him before reaching into her purse to retrieve the phone.

Across the screen, she read a message that had been written all in capital letters. I LOVE YOU, MARY. He had added two lines of hearts. 

“I’m right here; you don’t need to message me now,” she insisted.

“But I can also tell you on here!” He lay one arm across the back of the bench, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Now think of all the conversations we can have, whenever we want.”

She didn’t have the heart to say otherwise, silently pleased herself. It had been difficult, even when using landline phones. She had no right to use the family’s phone. It was different now; they could talk wherever they were. Mary couldn’t be annoyed about that.


	49. Red-Handed

“If we keep the change, we may have enough money for a sweet each. That’s more than we could hope for with _her_.”

Michael glanced over his shoulder, as if the shadow of their nanny had appeared across the tablecloth. When he was sure they hadn’t been heard, he glanced back at Jane. His meticulous plan must not be discovered. Not if he wanted it to come true. 

Unsure, Jane’s mouth contorted into a grimace. “But Robertson Ay said he would share the bourbons with us and they’re chocolate…”

“Fine,” Michael whispered furiously. “Take the easy way out but think about the sweets we could have. Them and the bourbons.”

Jane supposed he had a point. If there was a chance to have both then why not seize the opportunity? She held her breath, listening to the silence that surrounded them as they hid under the kitchen table, concealed by the cloth draped over it. 

“Okay,” she eventually agreed. “If we are good and she doesn’t need to buy the fish this week, I’m sure we will get a sweet each. We’ll have to make sure John and Barbara don’t upset her.”

“Something will upset her,” he reasoned, perhaps too brazenly.

The table cloth was flung upwards on all sides. All they saw were the familiar black boots, the polished silver buttons twinkling in the morning light. They knew the plan was ruined. 

“What have we here?” came the crystal-clear voice, all the more threatening for its loveliness. “A whisper has more meaning than noisy talk! To whisper is to be rude.”

“What does that proverb mean, Mary Poppins?” Jane asked, peering up from under the table. “I’m sure you whisper from time to time.”

Mary Poppins sniffed warningly. 

“I have no need to whisper. Never whisper to the deaf; it is the same as winking at the blind.” She was already bustling out of the kitchen, not once checking if they had moved. “And children who don’t have their coats and hats on in the next five minutes will not receive any treats.”

With that, the two scrambled out from under the table. Michael was already pink in the face with excitement. 

“Oh, boy.” He leant over to whisper in Jane’s ear. “Plan Sweet Shop is still happening.”

“Don’t whisper, Michael,” Jane chastised. “You know she can hear us.”

Michael’s smile dwindled slightly before fixing itself back into place. “She heard us and she’s still considering buying us sweets. She must be in a good mood for once.”

He was already sprinting off, clattering up the stairs before slowing into a walk at the demand of a passing Mary Poppins. Jane followed after him, much more subdued. She supposed if he couldn’t behave himself, there were always the smuggled bourbons from Robertson Ay.


	50. Graffiti

Dark red, like strawberry jam, the liquid looked less than appealing. With scrunched up noses, Jane and Michael peered up at Mary Poppins, silently questioning if they had to.

“I thought you wanted to,” she frowned.

Jane looked back down into the stone bowl and then at her nanny. “Will it stain, Mary Poppins?”

“Nothing that a bit of soap and warm water won’t fix,” she reasoned.

That was good enough for them. Reaching into the bowl, they plunged their hands into the liquid, bringing it out and pressing their reddened hands against the cave wall. They pulled back to find their hands imprinted there. 

“I’m going to write my name!” Michael exclaimed in his excitement. 

Jane didn’t want to be left out. “Me too!”

They signed their name beside the handprint, going as far as to draw a little stick-figured family beside it. Jane added another figure beside them. One that was holding an umbrella and had a large smile on their face.

“That’s you, Mary Poppins. So you will be remembered with us.”

“I don’t look like that,” she chastised. The smug smile on her face gave her away. “Now, hurry, children. It’s nearly time for tea and we mustn’t miss it.”

The two groaned, although they reached out, their red-stained hands not once marking her pristine gloves as they clung onto her.

Ø

“Oh, look, Michael!” Jane almost barrelled into the glass case, pressing herself against it, her nose nearly flattened all the way upward. “Look!”

He copied her stance. “Blimey, will you look at that!”

There, displayed in the Natural History Museum, were their two handprints. Faded with time, their names barely legible, the markings were still visible. And so was the stick-figured family. 

“Wait until mother and father hear that our art is in the Museum,” Michael beamed. “This will be the first of many, I’m sure.”

A hurried step was heard behind them and then an irritated sniff. “Get away from the glass!”

The Banks children stepped back, though they could not be dismayed at such a time. Mary Poppins had promised them that they could have their own caveman drawings, and there they were. Jane and Michael shared a meaningful look before being ushered into the next section. If ever they didn’t believe, they knew those markings would be displayed there forever. Nobody else could boast of that.


	51. Chapter 51

How curious. Jane had never seen anything like it. 

Mary Poppins never smiled at anything, let alone her shoes. Not unless they were particularly fancy, but these were her normal boots. Both Jane and the shoes seemed to know the smile was not for them. 

The nanny was even teasing. As if she were happy. Impossible… Yet, the woman herself had told Jane that she shouldn’t believe in impossibilities. With that thought in mind, she supposed that Mary Poppins really was happy. How pretty she looked with the small dimples on either side. 

Watching the scene unfold before her, Jane’s mouth began to form into a small ‘o’. If Mary Poppins had looked anywhere else, other than the flowers she had just been handed, she might have told her off.

But Jane knew why she didn’t notice, and she also knew why Mary Poppins was so happy. It wasn’t because of the sudden clear sky, the sun appearing from behind the clouds, nor was it the birds as they chirped past, saying something only the nanny could understand. It wasn’t even the lovely drawings that had been sketched onto the pavement surrounding the park.

No, it was the screever. The same screever who could often be found cleaning chimneys and selling roasted chestnuts on a bleak day. 

Jane began to smile too, a knowing, smug smile. For Mary Poppins was distracted by none other than Mr Herbert Alfred. And she knew what that meant.


	52. Strangers

They think they’re so smart. 

John, Margaret, Peter, Jean; their pranks always went astray, for nobody could trick Mary Poppins. William, Mary, Brian, Joan; they never won an argument, no matter how clever they were trying to be. And as for David, Patricia, James, and Sheila, they couldn’t hide the mess in their rooms by shoving it under the bed or into the wardrobe. 

There was nothing you could do that deceived Mary. 

Not Ronald, who insisted that his sister’s paints had somehow gone missing on their own; or Doreen, who promised that her little brother’s teddy had always been missing an eye. That had been a pie-crust promise, to say the least.

She knew that Kenneth liked to read about exotic animals and that June had no interest in the weather at all. As for George, he kept his mother’s trinket under his pillow after she passed away, while Shirley tapped a finger against her leg when she lied. 

No, they could never fool her. She knew each and every one of them, even before she had stepped through the door; all of their names listed in her mind. Not one of them was a mystery to her. Mary Poppins made it her business to know all of the children who were under her care, so when Thomas and Alan said they were Alan and Thomas, Mary wasn’t convinced in the slightest.


	53. Pockets

Back turned, Bert was talking to the badger and mole, the two countryside gentleman who had invited them to tea. Mr Burnham and Mr Milton were their names. Perfect hosts, they were sharing the variety of flowers in the front garden, having finished the afternoon tea. Bert had been happy to oblige. Even so, he knew that it was nearly time to leave.

They walked across the pebbled path, discussing their favourite plants, hardly noticing that one of them had fallen behind. 

Mary could hardly think of flowers or tea, or even the gentlemen’s favourite river. She knew it would soon be time to leave and she would have to say goodbye. Not to her new friends but to an old one. 

The wind had called. Faster than she had anticipated; yet, there was no doubt she would go where the wind took her. No questions asked. Except one. Bert had requested one more day before she opened her umbrella, and it had seemed impossible to say no. 

She watched him walk ahead; Mr Burnham on his left, Mr Milton on his right. Three gentlemen, only one human. Absorbing the way his dark hair ruffled in the slight breeze, the sound of his voice as it lilted in enthusiasm, and the way he looked so dapper in his tweed suit. Suitable for the occasion. 

The thought made her smile lessen, contorting into a frown. Her hand slipped into her dress pocket, pulling out a silver pocket-watch, laying prettily in the palm of her hand. Five minutes. That’s all she had left.

Slipping the watch back into the pocket, she noticed Bert peer over his shoulder. Clearly searching for something, or rather, someone. He caught sight of her, a grin spreading. She returned the smile, eager in its own right.

Mary supposed five minutes was better than nothing.


	54. Muse

Along the canvas, slight brushstrokes here and there. Some colourful, some plain. There was no need for excessive measures; that’s what she had said. He supposed she was right but art was an expression. And how could he not express his feelings onto the canvas? Not without her finding it unnecessary. 

Only the creak of the wooden stool could be heard, the slight rustle of fabric as his arm moved backward and forward, then the faint scratching sound that came from the brush gliding along the cotton. The silence had been welcoming. In good spirits, the window had been opened and the sunlight streamed in, hoping to light his lovely subject. Not that it was needed.

The chirp of a starling was less welcome. Recognising it as an old friend, he had been shooed away by an irritated hand. Remarking that, for once, they be left alone. 

Back straight, shoulders squared, Mary Poppins turned her face to look out of the window. She might have been a wooden doll for all intents and purposes. Hardly moving, it barely looked as if she were breathing. Yet, she took this job very seriously. 

She had asked which way she should sit- front facing, sideways; at the windowsill or on the drooping sofa. Bert had told her it needn’t matter. He would be inspired, either way. 

So, she had simply sat on a kitchen chair, staring out of the open window. Bert could only assume she was interested in what lay beyond his flat. The shouting of children, the bustle of working men as they passed to and fro, and the rustle of flowers as they blew in the wind. Sounds could not be captured in art but somehow, Bert knew he had done it. That’s what happens when She was around. 

Cheeks perfectly rosy, her nose tilting upward at the end, Mary looked as she always had. Not made of wood, but of china. Her raven hair pulled back into a practical bun, no hat to hide behind. Even in plain clothes, she was radiant. From the pearl brooch at her neck, covering her top button, to the silver fastenings on her boots that seemed to shine brighter than usual. 

Mary truly did not disappoint. And as practically perfect as his drawings were, Bert knew he could never truly capture her beauty. She did not belong in the oiled stagnation of time, only in imagination. Unfortunately for him, imagination was not privy to stick around on a canvas. It belonged to everyone. Bert would be selfish to think he could keep it to himself.


	55. Promise

Bert adjusted his bowtie one more time. It had seemed too low, by a millimetre, then too tight. Now, it looked crooked. Beside him, Charlie and Tom laughed. It made his ears turn red.

“Ey, don’t laugh. A man is in turmoil ‘ere.” 

“We can see tha’, Bert,” Charlie snickered. “Per’aps letting go of ya bowtie might ‘elp.”

Bert dropped his hands to his side, mostly to make a point. He still wasn’t satisfied with the way it looked. Behind them, the door opened and a young boy peered inside, looking the three up and down with a whistle.

“Boy, don’t you all look swell!” he exclaimed cheerfully. 

“Only the best for our Bert,” Tom teased, nudging the man in the shoulder. “Is it time, Jack?”

The young boy nodded. “Ay, it is. She’s ready.”

Bert immediately reached for his bowtie but Charlie slapped his hand away. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

Disappearing, Jack left the three alone. Feeling a cold sweat forming, Bert turned to the window, thinking he would open it, before changing his mind and rounding back. 

“Don’t tell me you’re ‘aving second thoughts?” Tom frowned. “You’ve been ‘ankering after this day for years. Since the moment ya saw her, in fact.”

Bert rubbed his hands together, hoping the friction would ward away the cold sweat. When it didn’t work, he laughed nervously. “Well, ya know ‘ow it is. Maybe I should go check if that’s what she wants.”

Charlie grinned. “A bi’ late now, my friend, and I don’t know about you bu’ I assume she doesn’t like t’ be kept waiting. No’ today of all days.”

He was right. She would be furious. Or worse, anxious. Bert couldn’t do that to her, almost rushing out of the door to ensure she wasn’t either of those things. How could she do this? How could she agree to marry him and then actually go through with it? Did she not pity him? 

It seemed the whole world had turned upside down. What world would they live in if there was no longer a Mary Poppins, but there was a Mary Alfred? Had he been knocked unconscious, left to live the remainder of his life in his dreams? Bert had never thought that Mary would marry him. 

Then he realised… Mary had agreed to marry him. She had promised. Nothing was more sacred to her than a promise, especially one that ended in ‘I do’. 

How silly, he thought, to get worked up. Of course she had meant it. Of course she didn’t regret it. Mary never made a promise that she didn’t intend to keep. And Bert was not the foolish type to leave her standing alone at the altar, not when he had waited his whole life for this moment. 

“Right, let’s go, boys.”

They could hardly keep up with him; he was practically running through the church corridor. Nobody kept Mary Poppins waiting.


	56. Medicine

Jane let out a horrified gasp as she watched the medicine pool into Mary Poppin’s metal spoon. She didn’t want any, even though she had taken some before. And to her surprise, it hadn’t tasted anything like medicine. Beside her, Michael groaned.

“Mary Poppins, do we have to?”

“I suppose you want to live with the measles forever,” she remarked. “You will have to join a leper colony.”

“Isn’t there a measles colony?” he asked innocently.

“No, everyone who has measles takes their medicine.”

Jane’s satisfied hum interrupted their conversation, pleased to find that this mouthful tasted like dandelion and burdock. Michael’s tasted like custard and cream. As for John and Barbara, they had banana and mango, respectively. 

Mary Poppins had a spoon, even as she wasn’t ill, for there was nothing worse than catching the measles. Like all previous medicine, hers tasted of rum punch and she emitted a sharp hiccup afterward. 

“Consider yourselves lucky,” she said snootily, “If you have reason to complain of my methods, you should try Nurse Matilda’s medicine. That will give you a nasty shock.”

“Nurse Matilda?” Michael repeated, letting her tuck him into bed.

“Yes, though I believe she goes by Nanny McPhee nowadays. More contemporary, she says.” Mary Poppins didn’t seem to agree, releasing a disbelieving humph as she tucked in the twins. 

“Mamee?” Barbara frowned.

“That’s what I said.” Mary Poppins turned the bedroom light off, satisfied to see they were all in bed and resting, especially in their condition. “Goodnight, children.”

They mumbled their goodnights and she left without another word. A minute later, Michael spoke out in the dark. 

“Are all nannies witches? It seems like they all need to be kept an eye on; they can be quite tricky, you know.”

“Oh hush, Michael.” Jane was already half-asleep and she couldn’t have cared less about Nanny McPhee and her distasteful medicine. She was simply happy they had Mary Poppins. Perhaps the trickiest of them all, yet Jane loved her anyway.


	57. Social Ladder

Social niceties, prominence, material possessions… They spoke nothing of the person. Mary had cared for children who slept in the same room as their parents, and she had also spent time with children who had a room each, the family pulled apart in more ways than one. She cared little for their social standing. It hardly mattered when there were more important issues at hand. 

Her vocation did not require money and unless the family proved more difficult than she had anticipated, her length of stay was the only reason she ever received her wages. Usually, she was gone before they had chance to thank her. In words and in money. 

Those who could afford to do so often complained of how much nannies cost nowadays, as if they could put a price on raising their children. For those who couldn’t afford to pay her at all, they tried to be kind. But either way, Mary would insist that it needn’t matter. The price she paid was the satisfaction of knowing the job was done. 

Yet, the world didn’t always agree with her. Children would ask why someone of her standing spoke freely to the milkman, the lamplighter, and the park keeper. Why would Mary Poppins acknowledge the bird woman and the balloon lady when she had stood in the presence of kings, stars, gods. 

Mary Poppins never explained why. Actions spoke louder than words. 

“A good name is better than riches,” she would say mysteriously.

From the looks on their faces, the proverb was lost in meaning. Both parents and children alike were befuddled. More the fool them, she thought. Before her time was done, they would know exactly what she meant without her ever having to say a word.


	58. Luck

Mary could feel her competitive spirit overcoming all sense, riled that anybody would dare to disagree with her. She knew best, of course, and to say otherwise was almost blasphemy. Still, if anybody had the nerve to disagree, it was Bert.

“I’m jus’ sayin’, Mary,” he chortled, unbothered by her rising temper. “You’re an extremely lucky woman, that’s all. You can’t argue with tha’.”

“Oh, I can’t, can’t I?” Her hands were coming to rest on her hips. “I will prove you wrong, Mr Alfred, if it’s the last thing I do. I shall… shall…”

Bert lent a helping hand. “You can play all the games at the fair and if you lose even one, I’ll let you win this argument. If you win, I prove tha’ I was right this whole time.”

“Well, that should be easy,” she scoffed. “I am never wrong.”

“And you have t’ try your ‘ardest, no matter wha’,” he added for good measure. 

She sniffed sharply, half in self-importance, half threateningly. “Don’t I always?’

Yet, after managing to throw all of the balls into the bucket, hooking several ducks onto the pole, knocking three shelves worth of tins onto the ground, landing ten hoops onto the glass bottles, and gaining the highest score on darts, Mary had to concede that perhaps she had been wrong. Not that she would admit as such. 

Bert was carrying the teddy bear, the rubber duck, and the handcrafted bracelet that she had won at various stalls. His grin only made her more frustrated. 

“How abou’ a go on the helter skelter then?” he asked.

“That’s got nothing to do with luck.”

“Well, no, but I though’ it would be funny to see you have a go on one.” 

The look she gave him was answer enough to what she thought of that.


	59. Separation

The flame flickered a second longer, as if gasping for its last breath, before reaching the end of the wick. It snuffed into smoke, leaving the room in complete darkness. Mary was inconvenienced, to say the least.

It was unlike her to struggle with sleep, staying awake until the early hours of the morning. Nevertheless, a thought had struck her earlier in the day and had refused to leave her in peace. Mary had politely asked for it to leave her alone, but her mind showed little respect for her wishes. 

Photograph in hand, it was obscured by the sudden darkness, the candle being her only hope. Its timely death informed her of how long she had lain there, no need to look at the clock on the bedside table. How terrible, she thought, to be caught in such a muddle. 

Mary believed in efficiency and she knew what must be done.

Climbing out of bed, pulling her clothes back on, she worked in absolute silence, considering the speed of her task. She was done within minutes. Mary stepped onto the windowsill, not seeming to notice how high she was, and took a graceful leap from the wooden pane. The open umbrella caught her, despite being a windless night. 

It sensed her urgency and it carried her with surprising speed to where she needed to be. Her heeled boot barely landing on the front steps, its exterior revealed it to be a London house. She hurriedly pulled the key from her coat pocket and opened the door. It closed thoughtfully behind her. 

The umbrella pulled her up the stairs too. Whether it was doing her a favour or she had asked it to was unclear, yet she came to a stop outside one of the bedrooms. Closing the umbrella and propping it against the wall, she entered the room, her hesitant footsteps making no sound against the floorboards. 

Mary felt her breath hitch, clutching the silver locket that hung from her neck. She stopped beside the bed, watching the way the bedsheet rose and fell with each soft breath. Her grip released the necklace and spread flat across her chest, calming the ache that formed below. Leaning across, she kissed their forehead. 

“Goodnight, my love.”

The little girl sensed her presence, despite Mary’s care, and her eyes blinked open. Dark brown staring drowsily into light blue. Her hand appeared from underneath the covers, reaching up for Mary’s cheek. 

In her hurry, she had taken less care than she thought- her hair was still undone, spilling down to brush against the cotton sheet. Her hat was long forgotten, left unceremoniously in her room. The girl lifted a finger from Mary’s cheek, letting it brush against the raven hair.

“Goodnight, Mommy.”

Mary stayed until the dawn, whispering her goodbyes, and leaving a kiss full of love and promises on her daughter’s forehead. On the way down the stairs, she left another kiss on the mouth of her husband, who was startled and delighted to see her. He told her that he was selling kites today and if he was lucky, he could buy the dollhouse they’d been saving for. 

That was all Mary needed to know, leaving for her ward’s house before they had even noticed she was gone. And as she pulled the blinds apart in Brenda and Gillian’s room, hearing their loud protestations at having been woken up, Mary had never been happier.


	60. Siblings

With Michael sent to one side of the room and Jane to the other, they spent their time scowling whenever they were alone, trying to quickly whisper any complaints they had to Mary Poppins as she passed. One quick look had shut them up. 

Their complaints had turned to pleading, promising to be good and that they could be trusted to roam around the nursery. That hadn’t caught her attention either. If anything, it made her angrier. The rustling of the newly washed bedsheets as they were tucked onto the bed seemed to quiver with rage. Jane thought she may be transferring her frustration into the bed. 

Trying his luck, the next time she passed, Michael called out for her. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mary Poppins?”

“Of course not.”

He wasn’t sure why it was so obvious. “Why not?”

The indignation on her face was seen through the reflection of the mirror. She spun around, just as offended, and the reflection peered through at him too. Both were staring, incredulously. 

“What would a woman like me do with brothers and sisters, may I ask?”

“Well…” Michael wished he’d never asked, the same sentiment visible on Jane’s face too. He was starting to feel sorry for himself. “For playing with and for fighting with. I bet they would have been amazing too. Like you.”

The compliment had left a conceited smile on her face but she couldn’t forgive him that easily. She tucked new bedsheets into Annabel’s cot, the cotton trembling a little less furiously than before.

“What would I need siblings for?” she mused, a question that required no answer. Mainly because she would answer it herself. “My mother realised that she needn’t have any more children. What would be the point if I was already practically perfect?”

“To have someone to share toys with, I suppose,” Michael muttered, each word getting quieter and quieter. Jane was staring at him, warningly. 

He was glad that he had been born. It meant that Jane hadn’t been practically perfect, hence his arrival. Michael didn’t stop to question why there were three more children after him. He was sure he had been enough; his parents always said he was such a lovely child. Not able to pinpoint when, he knew they had. And that was evidence enough.


	61. Perfume

He took her silence as uncertainty. That brief moment where she wasn’t sure what to say, how to tell him that his decision had been wrong. The anticipation was worse than if she had simply rebuffed him. 

Yet, the gleam in her eye as she raised her head, a faint glimmer of a smile tugging at her lips, Bert felt relief in the same way someone could be dunked into the ocean and yanked back out again. 

“Oh, Bert, this is too much!” she protested, although she made no move to return the gift. It was left sitting in her lap. 

“I like to think tha’ it’s just enough,” he answered, cheekily.

She shot a warning glare, although it was more playful than serious. Opening the bottle, she had already sprayed some of its contents onto her wrists when he called out in alarm.

“I mean, it’s nothin’ fancy but it’s meant to be quite popular. I thought you’d like it… I can always get another one…”

Mary sprayed the perfume around her in a precise flurry, the scent hovering in the air. Anxious, Bert was sure it smelt nice, yet it was difficult to know if his standards matched up to hers. He did the best he could with the money he had. 

She stood amid the misted cloud, allowing the final remnants to rest atop her hair, face, and blouse. Pleased, she leant forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. The act itself made him grin, even as his heart continued to beat rapidly, partly due to his nerves. As for the rest, it was from pure, unadulterated joy that she had kissed him. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she lightly chastised, carefully placing the bottle inside of her bag. “I shall keep it for special occasions. We wouldn’t want to waste it all at once, would we?”

He supposed not. It may have been that he paid little attention to such detail or that it was, what they called, a man’s trait, but he began to realise months later that she had done just that. Every Jolly Holiday, every Evening Off, every birthday and anniversary, Bert caught the slight hint of her perfume. And it made his heart lift to know that she cherished him as much as he did her.


	62. Adoption

The wind was calling. She could hear it at the window pane, the howl that it made down the chimney. When she walked down the street, it would swirl around her, fluttering against the hem of her skirt and tugging her forward as if it had grabbed the front of her coat. 

It was a usual occurrence, nothing that hadn’t happened before. At first, she had been curious, following where the wind took her. There was always a child at the end of the journey. Mary had lingered, forever inquisitive and quick-witted. She knew there was a reason for this calling and it did not take her long to understand why. 

Her mother had asked her why she couldn’t pursue another career; one of her hobbies might be nice. Or there was always marriage. 

Mary had promised to think about it, although it was a promise quickly broken. The wind grew stronger, more persistent with each visit. Once a breeze, now a gust. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to wait until a tornado appeared. 

Children who lived close to her family home were no longer an option, it seemed, for if she allowed herself to be carried away, she literally would be. Mary did not oppose flying but there was a time and a place for it. And the fact that she went face first into a lamppost one quiet morning did not help matters. 

Yet, the wind did not wait for her. She could only ignore the calling of her name for so long, the way it whispered in her ear, before the last ounce of will she had left disappeared and she was swept into the sky. After demanding that it put her down, for she was a respectable young woman, it often did, and she never discovered where it planned to take her.

It wasn’t until her next birthday when she received a present from an estranged uncle, his name hardly legible where he had signed it, that she began to realise that her family may have a collection of peculiar talents. Unwrapping the box, she found, to her dismay, that he had sent her an umbrella. One with a parrot on the end. Mary wasn’t a snob but she wasn’t particularly fond of the design either.

She propped it against the wall and even further to her dismay, heard it make a sarcastic remark about her lovely new hat the week after. After a heated debate, it told her something that she knew she had to hear. It had occurred to her several times and still, she had stifled it within the deep recesses of her mind.

“People spend a lifetime searching for a calling, for a purpose. Here you are with the world at your feet and you choose to ignore it. You have to become the person you are meant to be, else what good will you be married off or working as a seamstress?”

That career option had never occurred to her but for the sake of the argument, she pretended it had. “Being a seamstress is a respectable career choice.”

“But it’s not for you.”

To keep it quiet, she took it out one day when it was raining. It complained the whole way to the butchers. On the way back, she felt the wind tug, more vicious than usual. Catching under the umbrella, it lifted her into the air and hurled her across the London sky. She asked to be put back, demanded it, until she realised there was no point. The umbrella looked at her with a glint in its beady black eye.

“I suppose you’re happy,” she remarked.

“You can’t ignore the wind forever,” it told her, a bit too smartly for her liking.

The wind only lowered her to the ground when they were somewhere near Kent. Mary was less than pleased but as she wandered down the country lane, having attempted to fly with the umbrella before conceding defeat, she found three small children shouting and pushing each other. 

Mary looked at them for a while before sighing heavily. “Well, if I must, I must.”

After demanding that they stop fighting, she received a scathing greeting from the eldest, his grubby finger pointing up at her. 

“And who might you be?” 

“Me?” she exclaimed incredulously. Her grip tightened on the umbrella handle, back straightening to display some sort of authority over them. She was barely a woman herself. “Why, I’m Mary Poppins!”

“What’s that gotta do with you bossing us around?”

She hesitated, her gaze carefully scrutinising the three children. The answer was already prepared; it had been for several months and still, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to say it. Her lips parted and she heard the words tumbling out before she could stop herself. 

“I am a nanny, if you must know, and I am sure that children have better things to do than fight like cannibals at the roadside. You could be trampled by a horse. Then what would you do?”

Leading them home, she noticed the umbrella wink at her. She did not wink back. There was no doubt in her mind that she had crossed the line, one that she had carefully tread upon for quite some time. Yet, the wind had called her and she had responded. This was where she was meant to be and nobody other than Mary Poppins could answer to the task at hand.


	63. Blue Jeans

The light thump of his boots could be heard, although she was prepared to allow him the element of surprise. They came to a stop behind her and she could almost hear the grin that was spreading across his face. Pulling a needle through the fabric upon her lap, she paused, taking the opportunity to peer over her shoulder.

Perhaps she had been the fool for as Mary stared at him, she realised he had surprised her anyway. 

“So, you finally bought them?”

Bert placed his fists against his slim hips, back straight as if that would make him all the more impressive.

“Well, I said I would and I though’ why no’? I made my mind up.” He studied her reaction carefully. “So, wha’ do ya think?”

Mary wasn’t sure what to say. Whether to blush or to laugh. Gaze lingering on his ridiculously long legs, she was surprised to see what the clothes had done for him. A little more fitted than trousers, they suited him, she realised. Faint red developed along her cheekbones, overpowering the usual rosy blush. 

“I wouldn’t wear them to church but they’ll do for around the home and for work,” she suggested. 

Bert had grander plans. “I was thinkin’ that I could wear them ou’ and abou’. You know, if we ever went shoppin’. All the kids are wearin’ them nowadays; they can’t get enough o’ them. I think it’s time to move with the times, don’t you think, dear?”

Lowering the needle and his jacket that she was repairing for the tenth time, she supposed he had a point. They couldn’t keep dressing the same. Not in this day and age. Life continued, whether they wanted it to or not, and they were inclined to change with it. 

“They suit you,” she muttered, clearing her throat to speak louder. “I suppose owning a pair of jeans can’t be too harmful. You always did look good in blue.”

“Now, now, Mary,” he chuckled, a little abashed at the compliment, “We both know blue is your colour. Might be worth gettin’ you some, ay?”

Spluttering, she watched him dart out of the room with a laugh, his response to her stumbling chastisement. Mary Alfred? In jeans? Not for the life of her… Although, she had to admit, when she tried his on- despite the height difference - they did feel rather comfortable. And blue was her colour…


	64. Heirloom

Grace scrunched her nose, partly because of the overpowering stench of dust and rotting cardboard, partly because the bag that she had found was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. 

“What is this?” she exclaimed.

Her mother barely glanced over. “Oh, that old thing. My grandmother gave it to me, although she said I would have no use for it. I kept it but maybe it’s time to add it to the car boot. Pass it over and I’ll wash it.”

Grace hardly thought anything of it, skimming it across the floor of the attic. She didn’t think of it again until she found it propped atop the dryer in the laundry room. Newly cleaned, it was still ugly but she supposed it had its charm. Or it had done, back in the day. 

Her fingers brushed against the material, wincing at its coarseness. Grace couldn’t begin to understand why anybody would have a bag made out of carpet. Hearing her mother call for the bag, she picked it up, swinging it slightly in her hand as she went to the kitchen. 

She halted, brow furrowing, before continuing on her way. Then she stopped again. Frustrated, she opened the bag and found it empty. Strange. It sounded as if something was sliding around inside, although she wasn’t sure what. Leaving the bag on the kitchen table, she heard a faint thump. One that was heavier than it should have been.

“Can you hear that?” Grace frowned, shaking the bag. The sliding noise could still be heard.

“Hear what?” Her mother was flicking through an old magazine that she was meant to throw away. 

“That sound.”

“I can’t hear anything.”

With growing irritation, Grace went back to her room. She didn’t have time to wonder what was wrong with that stupid bag. It was empty; she was sure of it. 

Ø

Hearing her mother’s call for help, she helped carry the filled boxes into the boot of the car, her mother staying behind to wedge them with little success into the available space. Grace purposefully avoided the bag, leaving it till last. Eventually, she knew she would have to pick it up. 

She did so, a little hesitantly, and huffed loudly in surprise as her body bent forwards. It was ridiculously heavy. Impossible and yet, she heaved it upwards with both hands before dropping it onto the kitchen table. 

“What is going on?” she demanded to nobody in particular. 

Yanking it open, she blinked in astonishment, finding that the bag was filled to the brim with various items. This was her mother’s doing, she reasoned. They were for sale too. Yet, she had never seen these items before. A yellow measuring tape, a thermometer, a pack of dominoes, a hefty collection of postcards from all over the world- tied together with string, an assortment of letters- all with the same name, two bars of packaged soap, and a copy of the Ladies Journal. They were only a small part of what lay inside.

Grace plunged her hand inside, finding, to her surprise, that she couldn’t feel the bottom. Reaching further down, all the way to her shoulder, she still couldn’t decipher where the bag ended. Heart pounding, she yanked her arm back out again. It was impossible, improbable, downright absurd… And yet, the items did not disappear. Not even after she closed the bag and opened it again.

Atop the scattered letters, all addressed to a Mary Alfred, Grace saw another letter that was addressed to her. A number of pages that ended with- It took you long enough. 

Grace wasn’t sure who this person was, although she knew her mother’s maiden name had been Alfred and that her great-grandmother had been called Mary… Still, it didn’t make sense. She wanted to throw it all away, pretend it never happened. But when her mother asked where the bag had disappeared to, Grace told her that it would be a shame to get rid of such a holdall. It was part of their family, after all.

Confused, her mother hadn’t said anything, unsure of why she would want to keep such an ugly thing. Grace couldn’t have explained herself, even if she had wanted to. Besides, the letter had told her that she should never explain anything.


	65. Smile

Michael joined Jane at the window, both bumping into each other as they silently fought for dominance. However, he was the smallest and so, he was left to peer through the bottom pane. Jane got to look through the upper one, half covered behind the curtain. It was a stealth mission, after all. 

“Cor, blimey!” he whispered, a hushed exclamation, feeling Jane poke her knee into his shoulder. “She’s smiling!”

“Haven’t you noticed before?” Jane remarked. She was the eldest and she had worldly knowledge that he could only wish for. “She does it all the time.”

Michael sat in silence for a minute. “Yes, I have noticed.”

He hadn’t. Still, they sat in silence, watching the figures in the garden below. 

Starch apron tied around her waist, arms crossed over her torso- whether in modesty or because of the cold weather- Mary Poppins leant against the kitchen doorframe, the one which led into the small garden. The light from inside lit her figure rather nicely, so Jane said. Very romantic. 

Grinning from ear to ear, his unruly waves constantly pushed back to refrain from covering his forehead, Bert was saying something that they couldn’t hear. It made her laugh. 

“Now, she’s laughing!” Michael commented. “It’s a miracle.”

“Oh, Michael,” Jane sighed happily. “It must be love.”

Michael scrunched his nose, releasing a disgusted ‘uh’. He thought she was wrong, although there was no point arguing. Mary Poppins couldn’t have romantic feelings for another; he was sure of it. And for Bert, of all people. He was too cheerful for someone who was so serious.

Even so, she wouldn’t stop smiling and laughing. Michael was disturbed but, most importantly, confused.


	66. Open Door

A soft coo sounded as Annabel was placed in her cot, asleep and unaware of what was to happen. She responded to the noise with a smile, snuggling into the soft pillow and blankets that awaited her.

The evening dusk disappeared from the nursery with the steady, flickering flame of the fireplace. It grew brighter, almost like a beacon, and lit the room so that it was reflected in the clear windowpane- the one which looked out onto the front door, the lane itself, and Miss Lark’s front gate. Stretched across them was the warm glow of the nursery, the far end reflecting the open door that had been left ajar when putting Annabel to bed. 

The dominoes had been left in their cardboard pack from earlier that morning, one still sitting atop the castle that Michael had built. As for Jane, she had been left a pearl ring that had travelled all the way from the bottom of the ocean- the dance that they had attended there. It happened to fit her perfectly. 

The children hardly seemed to notice as they tumbled into the nursery, crying and shouting. They saw the flickering flames, the way they reflected the two nurseries. One being the room they stood in, the other stretching across the window, far into the world beyond. A place they could not follow. 

Jane and Michael stood in the open doorway, looking out into the Other. There she went, as calmly and as quickly as she always walked. Roses, a parting present from Bert, still clasped within her hand. 

Pleading, they asked her to come back, hands pressed against the glass. Their horror displayed for the street below to see, the people who waited there. But they were not looking at the children. This strange but charming group were watching the Other Nursery. The one that stretched with the light and ended where it grew dark, its door opening as she approached. 

As if she could hear their plea, she turned to them one last time, a smile offered. Affectionate, apologetic, emotions in her clear blue eyes that lay beyond them and their understanding. Then, opening her umbrella, she was pulled backward into the darkness of night that lay behind the door. Stars twinkling, they were the only comfort in the black void. 

Calling her name, they hoped she heard them. Their father told them there was a shooting star in the sky; their mother told them that the nanny had left yet again. No notice, no adieu. 

Mr Banks wished for a raise at the bank. Mrs Banks wished for a nanny that would stay when she needed them. As for Jane and Michael, they wished to remember. And Mary Poppins heard them. 

The shooting star, as it ascended to the heavens, seemed to wink at the children. It did not compensate for what they had lost but they were comforted. For she knew. Mary Poppins always knew.


	67. Lies

She had seen it coming. Like a storm brewing, grey clouds that stretched its way across the sky, the sun eventually disappearing to leave nothing but cloud. It made for hazy thinking. 

She had seen it in the way he lingered, head turning this way and that as if he could possibly think of anything else. Whistling, the tune faltering. Reflective and sombre.

She had seen it in their last goodbyes. That twitch at the edge of his mouth, the way he clung onto her hand a little longer than usual. He said nothing and she heard him all the same.

Stay. 

The wind waited for no-one, not even her. Obligation was her priority and she took comfort in the distance, even as it grieved her. Months, years, perhaps. But she always knew he would be there when she returned. Always the same, always smiling.

Yet, he was not smiling this time. Nervous, bumbling, he barely said a word to her and she took it upon herself to mention how nice Poland had been. Rather cold but she made the best of it- in her most fanciful furs, no less. He said ‘how nice’. And then they sat in silence.

She let him walk her home, knowing that her relief came in the form of an intrusive uncle. He would see her there at the doorstep and ask what this was all about. For the fun of it, not for the concern that there was a man there. They all knew each other. 

“Mary.”

A lovely sound but now, so hurtful. Unwanted. She asked him not to say anything but he said he must. 

He told her of the sun and the stars and the moon, how they were all for her. Because of her. How the flowers bloomed and the birds sang, and how the curve of her handwriting was like a thousand promises and more. Talking of how he missed her, how he adored her. A word missing that began with the letter L. 

She had hesitated and that had been her worst mistake. Pulling her hand from his, she made any excuse. Anything that came to mind, including a curse for Uncle Albert, who, for once in his life, was minding his own business. 

“I simply don’t feel the same way.” And that was that.

“Funny,” he said. “I never took Mary Poppins for a liar.”

She had closed the door, his face disappearing from view. Just because she couldn’t see him, didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He followed her, in heart and mind. And she resented him for it. They could not do this forever. One of them would leave the other; that was how it worked. That was how it would always end. She would leave him for a life he could not follow, or she would stay and eventually, he would pass on, leaving her with nothing but grief. 

No, she was not a liar. But exceptions must be made.


	68. Holiday

Palm trees fluttering in the breeze, a harmonious rhythm with the roll of the ocean. Waves curling upon the sand and retreating backward, a constant cycle that was both soothing and mesmerising. Nature produced its own music, if only one would listen, and she always did. 

The place was almost deserted, apart from the odd passer-by, but they paid no mind. Too occupied with their own bliss. As if the world knew she was coming, the sand glittered gold, the sea a shimmering mixture of cerulean, turquoise, and teal. Each passing of light creating a multitude of colour. 

“Did you do this on purpose?” Bert had asked.

“No, of course not.”

This wasn’t a Jolly Holiday. Not in the traditional sense. There had come a time when they had to experience a real holiday- for his sake, not hers. He had waited dutifully; the metropolis was his home, a jungle in its own right. But she knew he wanted more. To see the world. 

She could not deny him that and so, she had brought him to Hawaii. Hesitant, he had said he would have been happy with Cornwall or Wales. It’s nice that time of year. Still, she had insisted. And in relenting, Bert was prepared to admit that she was right. She was always right. 

Mary had packed dresses that ended just below her knee; very scandalous, he would joke. She offered to make them longer, causing him to quickly apologise. 

“You have lovely shins,” he would argue. And she would roll her eyes. 

Though a splash of colour did him good too; the tan skin and the various shirts he had bought were more than flattering. He was rather pleased with himself and he wasn’t hard to miss if she lost sight of him. 

Hand-in-hand, they walked slowly across the deserted beach, as if, somehow, Mary really did have a say in the weather. In the location. But this time, it was down to luck. They had found the perfect place to be together. Only for the time being. Yet, it was better than they could have hoped for. 

“It’s amazing, really,” he said suddenly, their feet wading through the sand and water. 

“What is?”

“You look beautiful everywhere we go. The sun has taken a liking t’ you, I must say.”

She chastised him, only half-heartedly, and he pulled her closer.

“Sun-kissed, Mary Alfred? You’ll find it’s my time to kiss ya,” he grinned. 

“Well then, hurry up and do so.” She closed the space between them, his shirt crumpled in her fist as she yanked him forward. 

He blushed, or perhaps it was the heat. Either way, they were preoccupied. It turned out that they were kissing for quite some time.


	69. Spellbinding

Astonishing, thought Mrs Banks. Truly remarkable. 

The house was silent. As if there was no life within, although she knew that to be untrue. She looked into the nursery, finding Jane writing about why Elizabeth Barrett Browning was her favourite poet, and Michael was studiously painting the new constellation he’d seen through the telescope. As for John and Barbara, they were playing nicely together, rolling the beads back and forth on the abacus. 

It was unheard of, unseemly- for such quiet and concentration. They never behaved like this. 

She said so to Mary Poppins as the nanny brought in the washing from the wire line outside.

“They are working so hard. I’ve never seen them concentrate so much!” Mrs Banks thought little of what she was saying, so amazed was she. “Why, it must be magic. Did you do something to them, Mary Poppins?”

An innocent joke at her own expense. The nanny looked furious as she passed, as if she had been tied up and thrown into the river. Accused of witchcraft. She insisted that such a thing was impossible and a horrid allegation at best. Speaking over Mrs Banks, whose poor cheeks turned a quick shade of red as she tried to apologise. 

However, the joke was not lost on Mary Poppins. A smile began to appear as she made her way back to the nursery, slower than usual, as if she had not much to do but work in peaceful, comforting silence. Using magic on the children? All because they were working hard? Why, what a wild, impertinent thing to say. Mary Poppins would not be accused of such a thing. Whether she had or not was another matter. But she would not be blamed.


	70. Taking Chances

It felt silly for a grown woman to be so nervous, uncertain. Even more so when it was Mary Poppins. Still, she supposed she had good reason to feel that way. The heart cared little for what the mind had to say.

Suggesting all kinds of things, she said: it’s such a lovely day, let’s stay here and walk in the park. Let’s sit here awhile by the fountain and by Neleus. Shall we go this way? Oh, here are some trees that happen to offer a lovely little spot…. For talking, laughing between friends.

Mary was often sly but that did not make her untruthful. She had learnt the skill of bending the truth this way and that, but never in a way that made her wrong or deceitful. And Mary had done everything she could that day to be sly. 

This moment had been planned for years- half asking where, when, how, what would even happen? 

Well, she was going to find out.

A lovely grove, isn’t it- he said and she hummed and uttered various, uncommitting replies. Very nice, shaded, secluded. Perfect- a little too much. 

“Seize the day,” she told him suddenly.

He seemed confused but agreed, nonetheless. And she kissed him. Quickly, unsurely, softly. Mary stood back, wondering if she had made a mistake. An erroneous judgement that would forever haunt her. But Bert seemed unbothered, even going as far as to kiss her back.

How lucky.


	71. A Night to Remember

She had known of them, watched them from afar. Never privy to their festivity; she was not one of them. 

“Nonsense,” Bert had said. “You are welcome any time. What’s a song and dance without Mary Poppins?”

How silly of him. Mary had always known about their rendezvous atop the rooftops, when the world was sleeping but the moon was not. She had seen the way one sweep, in particular, composed his own strange rhythms and movements, the way the others responded to him when he did. And she had to ask herself whether she had wanted to be there because of the dancing or because of him. 

As if it hardly mattered, she was there now. Sitting among them, creating her own dance, twirling from one sweep to the other, a never-ending flurry of her own making. She was breathless; she was air and she was light as the men danced around her. With her. 

Then he asked her if she would step in time with him. What other answer had there ever been but yes? She allowed herself one more dance, one more effort to please. But this time was important, as though her life depended on it. Her heart certainly did. 

“Mary Poppins, you dance like an angel,” Bert had complimented her as he walked her home. Half-skipping, like he carried the music with him. “I could hardly compare.”

He was being ridiculous; nobody could compare to him. If only he knew. Instead, she wished him goodnight and watched him from the upstairs window as he hopped down the lane, whistling and singing. If it were possible for her to dance all night, every night, with him then she would. Mary was not one to let an opportunity pass her by.


	72. Moon

“How have you been?”

Ineffable moo-ing.

“I am sure your son is pleased. Have you thought to look near Exeter?”

More moo-ing.

Michael squinted, unsure of what was happening, before turning to Jane. “This is it. She has truly gone mad.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Oh, Michael. Do you not recognise her?”

What was that supposed to mean? Mary Poppins was talking to a cow. Was he supposed to know the animal? Had they, by chance, met before? He very much doubted it; there were not many cows around London, that was for sure. Sure enough to tell Jane so.

“You have the worst memory,” she chastised. “It’s the Red Cow…”

Silence.

“You know? The one who jumped over the moon?”

Michael’s eyes widened suddenly, as if they were to pop out of his head. 

“Oh, I remember! Her?” He considered the cow for a while. “She looks different from what I remember.”

“That’s because she has a lovely new blue hat,” Mary Poppins interrupted, sniffing sharply. 

Yes… That must be it. For what else could it ever possibly be with Mary Poppins?


	73. Guidance

Like a crow that had sprouted arms, a piercing voice that might as well been a squawk, Miss Euphemia Andrew was no more pleasant in the presence of an adult than she was with the children. 

_Brimstone and treacle for you…_

Opposite her, as if she had powdered roses onto her cheeks, eyes glistening like a clear blue sky- sunny, warm, enlightening, Mary Poppins had never looked so furious. Not even when Michael had burnt the edge of her favourite apron as he hung it near the fireplace to dry. 

_Just a spoonful of sugar…_

Torn between yesterday and tomorrow. One in black, mourning the life that had been, and one in colour, plain and simple. Staring into each other’s eyes, hardly noticing if the world were to dissolve around them. 

This way or that way- their father’s choice or their own. 

It had never seemed so simple, easy. Jane and Michael would never want to be anywhere else. Running to Mary Poppins, clinging onto her skirt, they saw the rage that surrounded Miss Andrew, a piercing shriek emitting in her offence. 

The two women seemed to collide without ever being near each other at all. Clashing into one- into today, and with only the promise of tomorrow left standing, the Banks children were pleased with the result. Mary Poppins offered them the future. And, with her by their side, they had no doubt that they would be just fine.


	74. Flowers

The daisies from their first Jolly Holiday, the sunflower from her return to London, the freesia from the marketplace. Simple, yet they were as important as the rose he gave her on their first date, the lily on their anniversary, and the tulip on a Sunday, just to say he was thinking of her. 

On her way to France, she took the chalk-dusted gerberas with her, clasped tightly in her hand. She only released them once she was almost on the doorstep of her new family. A sweet pea with a note stating she was equally as sweet was sent in the form of a painting whilst she was in Greece, and for their wedding, there were orchids. An idea from their Holiday in Nepal. 

“That’s quite a bouquet ya hav’ there,” he commented one day. “Where’d ya get all them then?”

“Here and there.”

Fifteen years was a long time for a flower to live. Yet, not one flower that Mary had received from Bert had been subject to its natural end. They were all in the vase on her windowsill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd updated this list to where I got to but clearly not. Well, I'm back now so I'll start updating with what I have. Sorry for the long wait!


	75. Carnival

Sitting back in her chair, ankles aligned side-by-side, elbows tucked in, Mary Poppins daintily sipped her soup. She had insisted the jacket potato was not necessary. Besides, she liked soup, ignoring the disgusted faces of the children as she said so. Less disgusted to hear they were receiving a slice of Parkin cake- a treat they had waited all year for.

It was always the same. Every year, the children would become frantic with excitement. Remember, remember; the fifth of November, she would say. Well, they did. But not for the same reasons. Who didn’t love the fireworks?

“Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello. Look ‘oo it is!” 

Hearing that familiar voice, Mary felt an eyeroll arising, although she was amused by the camaraderie. 

“Hello, Bert. What are you doing today?”

“’Elping with the fireworks, I am.” He nudged his shoulder where a large rocket was neatly resting. “It’s all a bit o’ fun.”

Jane and Michael were beside themselves, pleading that they go with him. So excited that she naturally said no. Though she did allow them some change to purchase sparklers. As soon as they had left, Bert turned to her with a grin.

“O’ course, it doesn’t matter much. I always see fireworks when I’m with you…”

“Go help them, Bert.”

“Right you are.”

Doffing his cap, he gave her one last cheeky wink before going on his way. She watched him till he disappeared down the field. Settling back into her seat, she watched the large fire in the middle of the grass, crackling and spitting. Making the whole air smell of nothing but smoke- nothing new for London. 

Mary took another careful sip of her soup, thinking that the night hardly mattered much. She always felt a fire deep within her whenever she saw Bert. 

“Silly woman,” she told herself. That was more than enough thinking for one night.


	76. Dedication Page in Books

_To Jane and her dearest father….._

Oh, dear. She struggled for a moment before glancing up, studying his face. Not an embarrassment as much as a misunderstanding. 

Pamela Travers watched the pen hover over the page before meeting his eye. “I’ve just this instant realised I don’t know your name.”

Those weeks of driving back and forth, every morning, every evening. Those incessant conversations that she could tell were happening, even when she wound the window closed between them. Still, she had grown accustomed to his ways, as she was sure he had hers. 

“Ralph.”

He was smiling, even then. She nodded her head in acknowledgement, pleased, this time, to make his acquaintance.

“Pamela.” She continued to write, not entirely bothered to read the rest to him. He would discover her message eventually. “You’re the only American I’ve ever liked, Ralph.”

The driver took it as an opportunity, grinning. “May I ask why?”

“No.”

He was inconvenienced, though he knew her by now. Simply smiling, that unfaltering happiness continuing to be so, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said okay. Fair enough. And in response, she handed him the book. Thinking of Jane, her disability, and those who were more than capable, if only others would give them a chance. If only the girl would give herself a chance.

_Thank you for taking such pleasure in my work. If you reach for the heavens, you will get the stars thrown in- always reach for the heavens, Jane, and you may surprise yourself. P.L. Travers._


	77. Panic Attack

Pacing back and forth, fingers twisting together, a rhythm to match her mounting pulse. Muttering, though the words were clearly heard in the silent room. Mrs Hadleigh continued to sputter and whisper before turning around and glancing up at the other woman for the first time in several minutes.

“I-I can’t… I don’t know how.”

Mary Poppins watched her steadily, unflinching. Even in the circumstance that had landed upon them. 

“With all due respect, ma’am, I can have the children’s bags packed and ready within ten minutes. You only need to say the word.”

Mrs Hadleigh thought on it, pacing once more, falling into the nearby armchair. Short bursts of air escaped her lips as her head fell into her hands, the once neat bun releasing streams of red hair. They fell about her face, merely a cover for the forming bruises along her jaw and cheek. 

“He’ll kill me…” came the wail.

Even whilst sitting, her body seemed to curl into a foetal position, as if begging to reverse time itself and forget this nightmare had ever happened. 

Mary crouched down in front of her, one hand pressed firmly but comfortingly on Mrs Hadleigh’s back.

“I am afraid he may kill you anyway,” she said, honestly. Adamantly. 

Hoping that the pieces would fit together, enabling the woman to see the full picture- think of the children, of herself. The beating she had taken, the one that the kids had seen, and one which Mary promptly ended. Even with all of his shouting and swinging arms, he would not approach Mary- not when she was so furious. He scampered from the house, terrified to look back and see the look on her face. But he would be back, eventually, and Mrs Hadleigh had her choice. 

Back shuddering from her cries, the small whispers that said she couldn’t possibly, but those that followed saying she must. Whatever happened, Mary Poppins would be with her, with the children. That was a comfort in itself. No more harm would fall upon her if she were to follow the nanny. Sometimes, families needed mending, but they must learn to do it for themselves. And in that, Mrs Hadleigh did.


	78. Black and Blue

Dabbing his cheekbone with a damp cloth, merely to receive a sharp hiss of breath for her trouble. Mary exhaled slowly. She was irate- at his idiocy, at his human fragility, and at her anxiety when seeing him in such a state. 

“You shouldn’t have got involved, should you? Then there wouldn’t be a problem.”

He blinked through his good eye, offering an apologetic grimace. As the cloth dabbed at his cheek again, he winced.

“I said I’m sorry, Mar,” Bert protested. “Bu’ I can’ leave a woman being mugged in good conscious.”

His whole left cheek was discoloured, an array of purple, blue, and red. There was a slight swelling by his cheekbone and on his left eye. As for his jaw, it looked no better. Though he said the other man had it worse. 

“I know, Bert,” she sighed. “I know you can’t help being the hero but I’d rather you didn’t get hurt in the process.”

He flashed a charming grin, despite the state of his face. “Wha’ can I say? I see a damsel in distress, I hav’ to ‘elp ‘em.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Brow raised, she turned to walk away, mainly to plunge the cloth back into the ice-cold water. But she was pulled back in her vain attempt. 

“Now, don’ be like tha’, Mary!” he pleaded.

She let him hold her closely, looking everywhere but at him. Then she sighed heavily, meeting his eye. Kissing his surprisingly untouched forehead, Mary smiled. 

“You’re lucky you’re so charming, Mr Alfred. Else I may never forgive you.”


End file.
